Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling that love actually is all around. — Love Actually

“Kate!” Sophie’s voice called from across the marble checkerboard floors of the Bridge, loud enough to carry despite the various Oriental rugs and potted plants that were tastefully arrayed in order to absorb sound. “Oy! Katie! Over here.” 

Kate turned toward the voice, glancing every which way before homing in on her old roommate. Sophie was waving wildly from the entry to Edmund’s, the hotel’s restaurant. She looked positively flawless — per usual — in an AllSaints minidress, vintage Dior blazer, and Doc Martens, curls cascading past her shoulders and bracelets up both arms. Sophie’s mother had been a model in the 80s and Soph had always simply oozed cool, whether front row at London Fashion Week, netting new clients for her art gallery, or even drunk-eating chips in the JCR after a night out on Turl Street. Kate ran a hand over her City-appropriate Stella McCartney dress, giving it a tug to keep it in place. Despite all the murdery dictators Kate had stared down, she still found it tough not to feel flustered by Sophie. 

“Ugh, it’s been so long.” Kate kissed Soph on both cheeks before drawing her in for a hug. “You look unfairly perfect, as always.”

“Oh don’t worry, it’s all work stress. We’ve a show starting next week; I’m living on two yoghurts and a martini a day. Drop five pounds easy that way,” Sophie’s hands floated over Kate: brushing a curl away from her chin,adjusting her scarf, flicking off a piece of lint from her shoulder, subtly cleaning her up just as she had in their dorm room. “Come on, tea is this way. How long has it been since you had a proper tea?” Sophie grasped Kate’s elbow and smiled at the maitre d’, who began shepherding them to their seats. 

“Honestly? Five or six years, probably.” Since she had left for Columbia University at twenty-two six years ago, Kate’s trips back to London had always been too packed for the luxurious absurdity of afternoon tea. “Do they …” 

“Have chai? Unfortunately no, not one that you’d accept anyways. I just thought you could use a jolt of Britishness.” 

“And you,” Kate said as they were led to a tiny, sun-drenched table a few feet from a large marble fireplace heaped in flowers, “were exactly right.” She dropped her bag with a flourish and sat down in an overstuffed, overly tiny arm chair.

“Have you recovered from the jet lag?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “No, not really. Landed Sunday, we signed for the house on Monday, and we’ve spent the whole week unpacking.” Half her things had been routed through Amsterdam, and Edwina was apparently not the type to label boxes; they’d been searching for spoons for four days. “I’m falling asleep at two AM and waking up at half ten. I start in the City on Monday. I’m just hoping I make it there by nine my first day.” 

“You’re the hotshot fresh off that fancy U.N. task force and direct in from a New York firm, I’m sure you get a bit of a bye.” 

Three servers appeared out of nowhere with glasses of champagne, a tower of sandwiches, and a pot of tea for each woman. Kate poured a cup and took a sip, recognizing Sophie’s preferred afternoon oolong. 

“How’s Edwina doing, with everything?” Sophie asked as Kate took a proper bite of one of the sandwiches.

“She’s well,” Kate said, coughing a little as the egg salad hit her throat. “Fucking amazing, really.” 

“Ben just shot her for British Vogue, the May issue. Said she looks fantastic, they put her in all this glorious vintage McQueen.” 

“She had Harper’s last September,” Kate bragged. “It’s a little intense, interrupts her training, but she wants to strike while the iron is hot. ”

Kate’s twenty-one-year-old sister, Edwina, had been tennis-mad since the age of three and had gone pro the second she turned seventeen. She’d been toiling away at juniors tournaments in Saskatchewan and Amsterdam and Liverpool and Solapur since then, but last July ago she’d secured a wildcard bid to Wimbledon, and became the first British woman to win in fifty years. She was now Britain’s Cinderella, with contracts with everyone from Adidas to Evian, Tiffany to Hobbs, appearing on Graham Norton and even receiving an MBE from Queen Eleanor herself as she navigated the transition from tennis jock to jock/fashion plate/celebrity multihyphenate.

It was all fabulous and perfect, except for the parts that weren’t. By August, Edwina had been calling Kate crying at eleven PM New York time. By September, she had fired her coach and exited two tournaments early, including the US Open. By November, Edwina had had a stalker arrested not ten feet from their parents’ front door in Beaconsfield.

Kate had already been entertaining a move back home — her father’s New York specialists were beginning to murmur about the demands of travel outweighing the benefits of their treatment — and Edwina’s need for support and protection sealed it. Kate had asked a mentor for a reference to Allen & Overy, packed up her Harlem loft, and cashed out her savings and Edwina’s windfall to purchase a house behind a gate on a private road in St. John’s Wood. 

That was six weeks ago. And here they were. 

“Are you both planning on coming to the Black Book launch party next week to celebrate the List? The theme is diamonds so dress ‘expensively’…” 

Kate groaned. “Yes, if I’m not dying between the new gig and jet lag.” Edwina had been named one of Tatler’ s Ten Most Eligible in England, aka The List, an annual feature of the chatty, start-of-the-season March issue. Why this needed to be celebrated on a Tuesday, of all days, escaped Kate. “Wait. How did you know she made The List? Ben?” According to Edwina’s agent, the winners were usually a secret until the launch party. 

Sophie smirked, flicking a caramel curl over her shoulder. “Yes, but not the way you think. Ben’s older brother Anthony made The List too this year; he’s mortified and trying to duck out. Trying to schedule a trip to Hamburg for a meeting. Ben, of course, thinks it’s hilarious, so he’s telling everyone.” 

Sophie had, since their first year at Oxford, been inextricably entangled — really the only fitting term — with Benedict Bridgerton, the second son of the second-most powerful family in Great Britain. The hotel they were sitting in, the Bridgerton (though anyone who knew anything called it the Bridge), was the most exclusive in England, yet just one of the jewels in their sizable, international real-estate portfolio. They owned the whole of central London at one point, and the main squares in Mayfair  — Bridgerton, Aubrey, and Kent — were named after the family, their country abode, and its home county, respectively. The family’s ancestral home (a word always said unironically) was a 500-year-old Grade 1 property that was used as a filming location for the wildly popular Knightsbridge Manor , an Edwardian upstairs-downstairs drama about the rapidly shifting morays of the gentry. The house’s Instagram had a million-plus followers, making it the second-most popular account in the family — Benedict’s twenty-six-year-old sister, Daphne, had three million. 

An ancestor had been prime minister at one point, there was a family title, they had been close confidantes for several members of the House of Lyons for generations. Kate distinctly remembered vomiting into an Aubrey Hall plant at the age of nineteen and Prince Nick, the future king of the entire fucking realm, helpfully holding back her hair; Prince Freddie, Nick’s spare, had been dating Daphne at the time and had generously provided at least half the drugs at the party. The Bridgertons stayed mostly out of politics, though, and focused on being extremely, extremely rich and extremely, extremely well-connected. Kate’s grandparents and their grandparents had been judges and ministers and landowners in India since the Mughals and well-connected in the Raj; her heart-surgeon father immigrated to Britain to become one of the most respected heart surgeons in the world. Kate rowed and rode at Wycombe, Edwina could be Britain’s most famous female athlete — but they were not and would never be inside the circle the way the Bridgertons were. The Bridgertons drew the circle. 

Kate had first met Ben when they were cast opposite each other in the Exeter Players’ Taming of the Shrew (no chemistry — they actually recast Benedict after rehearsals started) and had quickly introduced him to Sophie, her roommate. Ben was three years ahead of them and threw the best parties, knew the coolest restaurants, paid for everyone’s trips. He was expansive and charming and funny as all hell, his charisma a gravitational pull on the entire college. He was known and gossiped-about even then; Kate had suspected long before he confirmed it that his easygoing openness, the constant focus on living in the moment, was a bit of a strategy to keep too many questions at bay, the partying as much to forget as it was to create memories. 

Because Ben had plenty to forget. His dad had died, suddenly and tragically, when he was sixteen, and Anthony — Most Eligible Ant — had inherited the titles of both viscount and patriarch at the age of eighteen. Anthony had graduated Christ Church before she arrived at Exeter, so they’d only met a couple of times, but she remembered an intense, overly serious, frankly snobby bloke: he had actually come out of a library and asked them to do keep it down, please , as he was working, right before she’d thrown up into that plant. At one point during a different house party she’d walked in on him going down on some date of his (who never even made an appearance at the actual party). He had asked, “Do you bloody mind?” in a bored tone as she apologized and exited. 

Ben and his older brother were two sides of the same coin really, dark and light: Since graduating Oxford and then attending the Royal Academy of Arts, Ben had become a well-known photographer and artist and not involved in the family business at all; Anthony worked there as some senior executive, which even Kate knew was extremely unusual—normally the owners of firms like the Bridgerton Group just showed up for the quarterly stakeholder meetings to collect their pounds.

“I thought the winners were supposed to be charming,” Kate said with a laugh. “Not the type who confiscates cocaine and ecstasy from a fucking prince before lecturing him.” 

“Anthony is charming, just … in a snarly, protective, judgmental way,” Sophie protested, though she was giggling too. “He doesn’t much care for Society and parties, same as you. But he’s a good brother to them all, a decent housemate to Ben and Col. He leaves the hall light on if we’re coming back late, orders from the Thai place I prefer, stuff like that.” 

“So does that mean you and Ben are …. together? Involved? A whatever?” Kate asked, gesturing around his family’s hotel, at the staff who knew Sophie and all her favorites, at the Dior bag on Sophie’s arm, at her knowledge of Snarly Anthony. “That’s … all good?” It had been a decade, she realized, of their two free spirits endlessly circling each other, sometimes close, sometimes farther apart. Both of them were rarely seeing only one person — in Ben’s case, both men and women — and they both had borderline-bohemian sensibilities that Kate could appreciate but could never understand. But it was a fucking long time no matter how you sliced it. 

Sophie shifted, her body stilling and the amusement leaving her eyes. She scratched a pattern into her palm with her nail, contemplating things. “When we’re together, we’re together,” she finally said. “When we’re not we’re not.” 

Kate raised an eyebrow, the body language more than the terminology catching her attention. “And you’re still happy with that?” she pushed. The open-ended status had always worked for Sophie; her family was a shitshow and the lack of commitment and expectation was essential. 

“Sure. I mean, gosh, I’m working all the time, Ben is in Paris or Tokyo or New York half the month —”

“— I know, I saw him like four times a year —” Kate cut in. But he had barely ever mentioned Soph, and suddenly things didn’t seem to add up. 

“— Right, so you see then.” Sophie smiled, took a sip of champagne. “That’s how it is.” 

Kate cocked her head. “Well, yes, I suppose —”

“He’ll be at the Black Book launch. You should come. We can grab a drink beforehand, if he’s free.” And suddenly Sophie’s face was bright and clear and fun again. 

“Yes of course,” Kate finally said. “How can I say no?”

“Ant!” Colin’s voice somehow cut through the debilitating hangover. “Up! Or we’ll be late for Mum’s.” 

He banged his head on the pillow, willing a hole to open in the floor and swallow him up. “ Must you be so shrill?” he groaned back. Even with his eyes closed and his senses totally dulled, the light glinting off the Thames was physically painful, and his throat felt like sand. He squinted in the direction of the noise, somewhere deep in their four-bedroom Strand penthouse. “You sound like a schoolgirl getting fucked for the first time.” 

Col popped in, a large green juice in hand and a mirthful look on his face. “What is it like, aging, brother?” 

“I don’t know, brother, what’s it feel like to be murdered in your sleep?” 

“I was asking seriously! After all, Tatler says you’re doing it like a fine wine.” Col handed him the juice. 

“Sod off,” Anthony replied, but he took the glass gratefully. 

“Where did you and Siena get off to? You normally … don’t come home in that state.” What Col meant was, normally Anthony at least remembered how he got home. 

He grimaced. “Met her at her show. Then the afterparty. Then her place.” 

“And where did a bucket of gin come into play?” Colin sniffed Anthony’s shirt, and grimaced. 

“The pub I went to after we got in a fight at her place.” 

“What was this fight about?” 

“Stupid really.” He got out of bed. “How much time until we have to be at Bridgerton House?”

“We have to leave in half an hour.”

“Is Ben around?” 

“Nah, he texted, went to Sophie’s and he’ll meet us there.” That felt like news — last week Ben had installed a male model from a shoot in the apartment for three straight days, then never mentioned him again. Sophia Bui Boateng was a lovely girl, but she had far more patience than Anthony could possibly possess when it came to his irrepressible younger brother. “Freddie and I were at Will’s newest till three last night and took tequila shots off of models, how am I possibly the most responsible flatmate?” 

Anthony withheld the urge to roll his eyes. “Any photos I should be concerned about?” 

Col stood, annoyed. “ You should only be concerned about whether Siena will take you back. Are you going there after? Talk to her and all?” 

“Of course not, it’s Sunday, I’m going to the office.” 

“You should send her flowers then.” Col suggested trailing him into the walk-in closet. “Women love flowers, trust me.” 

Anthony monitored the family accounts far too closely, and felt it more apt that Col simply loved sending women flowers. He would almost certainly send the tequila-shot model a bouquet before her next show. “Why are you assuming the fight is my fault?” Ant started raking through for clothes. “You’ve met Siena twice .” 

“Because Siena is a smart, funny, stunning woman, with two Brit Awards in addition to that reality-show title.” He honestly forgot she won Britain’s Got Talent, and was a bit surprised that Col had enough feelings about this to form a positive impression. “You, on the other hand, are a curmudgeon with seven siblings, a maniacal and egomaniacal approach to work, and a decidedly anti-fun attitude about, well, everything.” He raised his eyebrows. “One of you was the catch.” 

“Well,” Anthony said, grabbing an oversized turtleneck sweater and jeans before walking to the bathroom. “We broke up, and I did the breaking-up, and she was with another man, so no, I won’t be making that first call.” And he did get a little bit of satisfaction from the stunned look on Col’s face as he slammed the door shut. 

Almost an hour later, they were pulling up to their mother’s house on Bridgerton Square. Despite two litres of water and several Tylenol, Ant’s hangover had barely subsided. He blamed Col and his nonstop badgering.

“Was he a musician? Was he taller than you?” Col unbuckled his seatbelt. 

“I don’t know, Col.” 

“Were they in bed?” 

He pushed the gate to the front steps open — Bridgerton House was flush to the street, and they’d installed the extra layer when Daff was dating Freddie and paparazzos gawked daily. “I’m not discussing this, Col.” 

“Were you guys even exclusive? I never thought you were exclusive.” 

Ant paused, blocking his forward movement. “If you mention any of this in front of Ben, Mother, El, or god forbid, Daff, I will make sure BG never invests in whatever nightclub in Ibiza you’re noodling.”

“How though,” Col asked as they headed up the walk, his tone one of putting puzzle pieces together, “were you with her at her concert, and then an after-party, and then somehow you caught her fucking another man?” 

Fuck. 

“I —” Anthony started as he opened the front door — “hate you.” 

“Oh good.” Their mother, Violet, hummed as she set a massive bouquet of hydrangeas on the foyer table — a gift from a French king to some ancestor. She brushed a wisp of hair away as she turned to greet them. “You’re here.” The observation was at once completely innocuous and deeply judgmental. Lady Violet had not ruled London society for more than three decades without perfecting this tone. 

“Always are, Mother,” Anthony replied, kissing her cheek. They were, he noted on his watch — his most precious possession — approximately two minutes past the hour. 

“It’s Sunday brunch.” Col followed him, giving her a bear hug. “Do we keep our inheritances if we miss Sunday brunch?” 

“You do not,” Violet confirmed, even though the inheritances, at this point, were technically Anthony’s to dole out — their funds were tied to the family and the viscountancy, not a person. “Come in, now. We’re still waiting on Ben. Is he not with you?” 

“No, he …. is traveling separately.” Col caught himself. “Wanted to, uh, pick up flowers for you.” 

“I see,” Violet answered, and she did. It was hard to slip things past Violet, not that they all — Eloise especially — didn’t try to. But wherever and with whomever Ben spent the night, the partner would need to be ditched before he arrived to brunch: While every of-age child was always given a plus-one — and allowed to liberally suggest guests for the list — to her many parties, and she turned an eye to overnight guests at Aubrey Hall, anything deemed family-only was firmly family-only. This was as protective as it was proper. Violet loved attention, but despised intrusion. She had felt that way since well before a photo of Prince Richard exiting their father’s funeral, six of eight children crying behind them, landed on the front page of the Mirror , and the instinct had been steadily sharpened since that incident, as they all attracted tabloid interest (Daff and Ant especially), fell into and out of relationships, and generally became society fixtures in their own rights. 

Brunch was the most regular and sacred of said family-only events. Daff had been with Fred for close to five years and he had never been invited to brunch (though he well understood, given his family); Simon only after he proposed. Benedict dated men and women extensively; Sophie, his most consistent companion, knew better than to ask. Col never broached the subject of an invite for any of his flower recipients; Eloise, who could turn any party invitation into a crusade for her personal gay rights, never even tried to pick a fight about the rule. Anthony disagreed with his mother plenty — in fact, he recognized  many of her ‘protective’ strategies carried the added benefit of making the family look more exclusive — but preferred the dictum. It was astonishingly convenient.  

“Everyone else is in the great room; Phoebe —” their cook, “— is making waffles and a frittata upon Hyacinth’s request, and Daphne and Simon brought scones. Oh and do not comment on Eloise’s hair — I suspect that would be exactly what she’s after.” 

The two exchanged a look before heading toward their siblings. Ant quickly shot off a text to Ben to find Vi some fucking flowers before making an appearance. 

Ant and Col — now blessedly silent — followed the sound of their siblings’ laughter to the back of the house. The 300-year-old, eight-story (three underground) detached home had thirteen bedrooms, and Anthony was pretty sure that, had his father lived, they would have had twelve children to fill it. Ant had spent most of his childhood at their country estate, Aubrey Hall, but traveled into the London house frequently enough; back then, Bridgerton House had been entirely kitted out in faded floral prints, decorated mostly by a great-granny who preferred horses to humans and had grumbled at the expense of adding indoor heating in 1950. Growing up Ant had been particularly fond of the knight’s suit of (entirely real) armor that hung out in the front hall. Aubrey Hall had been similarly equine-forward in its decor.

What they had lacked in trendiness, though, their homes made up for in laughter: Ant’s childhood had been all about racing Ben down the grand front banisters, Col swapping the sugar and salt to prank Daff at breakfast, the girls forcing their older brothers into tea parties with their dolls. There had been to-the-death Pall Mall in the summer and elaborate Christmas plays in the winter — none of the typically dysfunctional aristo coldness that most of his Eton friends had experienced growing up. All of this had been led by Edmund, their patriarch and north star, the center of their family and of every room. 

With a booming laugh and a winking smile, Ed had the easy charisma of someone who knew how loved he was. His marriage to Violet set the family apart among their set; it was a whirlwind courtship that turned into one of the steadiest, most steadfast in town. Anthony still remembered sneaking downstairs for a second dessert after one of his parents’ dinner parties and watching them slow dance in the living room, their voices quiet but full of mirth. It had always felt like he was witnessing something sacred, watching them interact. They spoke a language Ant didn’t know.  

And then, he died. Ant had been eighteen; Violet, six months pregnant with Hyacinth. 

Violet had spent the decade after Edmund’s death renovating the home into something more livable, more modern, and — Anthony could practically hear Great-Granny’s voice say the words — quite a bit more arriviste. Bridgerton House was now quite trendy — all glass and marble and parquet floors — though quieter now that most of them had grown and flown. There was a pool and a bowling alley and a media center in the basement floors, though Ant supposed that was quite typical these days. Middle-class or not, the entire place was now stunning, and the great room had been Violet’s most significant upgrade in the 42,000 square foot home. 

The space was essentially an open-plan house within the mansion, and took up the back quarter of the first two floors, with a living room, rec space, open kitchen, dining area, and a statement thirty-story wall of windows that opened onto the remodeled private courtyard, allowing light to stream in. It was, unlike the front of the ground floor and first floor, entirely for private use. Violet had kitted it out with walls of built-in bookshelves, polished marble-covered everything, custom-made velvet and leather furniture, and it was toward this room that Col and Ant instinctually headed. 

There, five of their siblings, plus Daphne’s fiance Simon — who was also Anthony’s best mate from Eton — sat around a puzzle, laughing and drinking bellinis. Anthony’s eyes darted to El: She’d streaked her hair pink. Better than last month’s lime.

“Anthony!” Francesca exclaimed, the first to notice them. Just twenty-two and recently graduated from Edinburgh, she was (comparatively) quiet, sardonic, sharp, and not-so-secretly Anthony’s favorite sister: unlike El, she considered how he might be doing; unlike Daff, she was not smug about his answers to that question; unlike Hy, she texted him between requests for money. 

“No greetings for me, Fran?” Col pouted. 

“You’re not one of Britain’s Ten Most Eligible. Better luck next year,” Fran retorted with a wry smile. 

“I’d say hello to you, Col, but you bailed on me and Pen last night,” El said with a smirk. A twenty-three Wadham grad now in law school at UCL, she was the only person who needed less rest than Ant. She went directly from an all-nighter to a climate protest to a club at least once a week. “Had to make do with Daff and Si and they’re all wedding talk. And they went to bed by eleven. ”

“Next time you’re gonna have to invite the Most Eligible Bachelor to the party,” Daff teased, kissing Anthony’s cheek. She sniffed and then raised an eyebrow in the direction of Si. Pausing a moment with a sympathetic smile, she straightened his collar with a hum.

Ant folded his arms and fixed them with a faux-glare. “Ok, ok, how long is this going to go on? I am willing to bribe for its conclusion.” 

“Are you definitely coming to the Tatler party?” Daff grilled. “Ben said you were a maybe. I have to film a ‘Getting Ready’ featurette for them —” The theme of the March issue was always Society; with the upcoming nuptials slated to be the Wedding of the Season, Simon and Daff would be on the cover. Ben had shot it, and at Daff’s recommendation the launch party would benefit Anaphylaxis UK. A whole family affair. “— and you’re welcome to join. I think it would be good for your brand.” The last part was a tease. 

“Unfortunately my meeting in Hamburg fell through so yes, I will be attending on Tuesday.” He raised an eyebrow. “I will not be doing anything good for my brand .” In fact, this award felt like quite the opposite. 

“If it makes you feel better, Ant, Dora agrees that this is embarrassing for you,” Eloise offered. 

“Given that when I paid for dinner with your girlfriend, El, she told me that billionaires and the aristocracy shouldn’t exist, that’s not actually that comforting.” 

“But she did say she liked you,"  El retorted, with a touch of outrage. 

“Who started the party without me?” Ben said from behind them, his voice boisterous. Hy shrieked, leaping into his arms. Violet, a bouquet of roses in hands, smiled as she entered too. 

The attention finally off him and the group breaking into twos and threes, he slouched next to Simon, who murmured, “So why are you still drunk this glorious morning?” 

He sighed. “Siena,” he muttered. Simon, shaking with silent laughter, handed him a bottle of water before clapping him on the shoulder. 

He and Simon had been best friends since the age of thirteen, Simon gravitating toward him in part because of the massive, loud family. Simon’s background was quite a bit rougher — the only child of a second son of a duke, his father had died in a car accident and his mother subsequently sent back to Jamaica when Simon was five. From then forward was largely raised by his uncle, the duke, who was without issue. Anthony had only met the uncle a few times and it was clear the man was a mean drunk. 

Simon had first escaped through a serious and seriously promising football career, but his uncle put an end to the academy life, sending him to Eton at thirteen. Ant and Si, joined a year later by Nick and the following by Ben, had been inseparable at school, alternately struggling with or taking advantage of the immense expectations of their privileges. There had been ski trips to Kloisters, summers on the coast of Portugal, hunting weekends in Scotland that lasted weeks.

Simon had been gruff and rough, seriously distrusting and seriously aloof. Football was the only thing that kept him on track, and he’d made the national team before knee surgeries derailed his career by eighteen. He had cut for uni in the States after graduation, unable to cope with his uncle much longer. After studying computer science and business — a serious nerd — he had spent a decade bopping around the Bay Area, Africa and the Caribbean, working mostly in tech VC and social-impact investing — a passion project, he always said, but Anthony was never sure how much passion he actually had for it. It was well-paying but not particularly arduous, given his connections; it gave him decent press; and it kept him reasonably out of England (the most important qualification). 

Then three years ago his uncle had died, finally, and he’d returned to England and a crush of tabloid interest as the first biracial duke. He had formed an unlikely alliance with Daff, freshly off her breakup with Freddie — pretending to date to try and deflect attention and invasive questions. Surprising Anthony most of all, they’d fallen for each other, Daff settling something in Si and Si repairing what Fred had broken. Anthony and Simon had had precisely one knock-down drag-out fight at the start of the relationship, but since then Ant had honestly appreciated having someone else in the family with sense; he reckoned that Simon and Nick were possibly his only true friends in a lonely world. 

The groups of twos and threes eventually drifted over to the table, noisy conversation following. Anthony sat at the head, as always; Violet at the foot. Daff and then Simon sat to his left; Fran and then Ben to his right. Col and Greg sat next to their mother like usual, Hyacinth and Eloise across from one another. Conversation cut through and across the table in groups as they grabbed food; with a waffle in his stomach Anthony was finally feeling a little less at sea. 

He was just grabbing his second second when — “You and Siena broke up?” El, in conversation with Col, suddenly asked across the table with an eyebrow waggle. 

“You and Siena were serious enough to break up?” Daff was right behind her. 

“ You broke up with Siena?” That was Si. 

“Serious for Ant,” Ben replied to Daff, his voice a little taunting. 

“What is that even … I am the only serious member of this family.” 

“Fran is extremely serious,” Greg pointed out. 

“So’m I!” Hy exclaimed, lobbing a strawberry at him. 

“I prefer pragmatic, actually,” Fran said to Greg, a serene smirk on her face. 

“Not with women you’re not,” Daff’s voice, directed at him, was patient, as if he were a small child. 

“You got in trouble for Tiktoking from the school bathroom,” Greg reminded Hy. 

“You were Tiktoking from the school bathroom again?” Violet asked. 

“Wait till you hear why they broke up,” Col gossiped, sipping his lager. 

“Are you alright, Ant?” Fran asked. 

“Wait, why did you break up?” Daff asked. 

“Yes, why did you break up?” Their mother, again. 

“Was it to protect your title of Eligible Bachelor?” El smirked. “Or your title, Viscount Bridgerton?”

“It was not —” 

“Was she fu— seeing someone else?” Ben asked Col, gleefully putting his chin on his palm.

“Nooooo quite the opposite, in fact,” Col smirked. “He caught her—” Now he mimicked a blow job, quickly earning a pinch from Violet.

“Did Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor get cheated on,” El exclaimed, barely containing either shock or glee. 

“That’s terrible,” Fran blurted out.

“That … singer … cheated on you?” Daff asked, unimpressed. 

“Well then, I am quite glad I never met her,” Violet sniffed. “Her reputation precedes her anyways.”  

“Definitely not someone worthy enough to take our favorite bachelor off the market,” Ben chortled. 

“Can you all please stop with the Most Eligible nonsense !” he finally burst out. “My god, does anyone in this family think before they speak?” 

They were all, finally, silent. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on, darling?” Violet finally asked, softly. 

Ant sighed, wrestling his thoughts into coherent shape. “It probably surprises nobody, but I am beginning to collect the votes to become the CEO of the Bridgerton Group. I’ve spent the last twelve years working toward this singular goal and I believe I’m close to achieving it. Bridgerton Britain has made substantial gains under my leadership the past two years, and the opening of the Sanditon resort was an undeniable success. Harry —” their father’s best friend, and former general counsel, who had been the CEO of the company since Edmund’s death— “is looking to retire at the end of this year. He’ll support me. I expect you will too.” He directed the latter to his mother, one of nine members of the Board of Governors.

“What does this have to do with Siena?” El asked, bored already. 

“Because,” Anthony restarted, “I shall next year, at thirty-four, be the youngest CEO in Bridgerton Group history, the youngest CEO on the Sunday Times’ list, and the second-youngest billionaire according to Forbes Europe. All of which are more important rankings than the Tatler drivel. And so —” he paused, “ — I think it best that this is also the last time that I appear on this list of eligible bachelors.” 

His siblings’ reactions ranged from confused to bored. Simon, though, put it together. “Shit, Bridge,” he said. “You didn’t .” 

“Did what?” Daff demanded. 

“Ant,” Fran asked timidly, “...did you propose to Siena?” 

“Anthony,” his mother sighed, as Col and Ben cackled. 

“You proposed ,” Ben said with a wheezing laugh. “You just … decided to get married and so you proposed to the last woman you tripped into bed with.” 

“We have been seeing each other for eight months.” 

“This is rich even from Ant,” Si pointed out to Ben. 

“How did you catch her in bed with another man,” Col repeated his demand childishly, banging a fork on the table. “The people must know!” 

“This is an extremely inappropriate brunch conversation,” Violet interrupted. 

“Mama, you should have stopped this like five minutes ago if that was your concern,” Daff replied. “Don’t you dare stop now.” 

“I am going to murder you, you know,” Ant informed Col. 

“This story is too good, I don’t care. I shall die happy.” 

“Go onnnnn ,” Ben whined with a clap. “This is better than the time Cressida Cowper yanked Helen Goring’s wig halfway down the Prada runway.” 

Ant clenched his jaw. “After her show, I laid out my reasoning. She did not agree, and accused me of —” Being a coward, not knowing what he wanted, being an absent and mercurial boyfriend — “many things. We split for the evening and went our separate ways. I went back to discuss further, and realized when I arrived that her guitar player was also there. So yes, Col, a musician and also tall. She said she had been upset so she called him, we … both said things we should probably regret, and we parted ways for good.”  

“Did you … propose, or did you try to negotiate a contract?” Daff asked.

He hesitated. “A little bit of both, I suppose.”  

“Oh, Anthony, ” his mother said with a sigh. 

“You know, I’m quite full, and need to get to the office,” he replied, standing and tucking another waffle into a napkin. “I’ll see you two at home.” He pointed said waffle in the direction of Ben and Col. Col, at least, looked slightly guilty. “And the rest of you Tuesday night for this Tatler party.” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Daff announced, and her tone settled the matter. 

They wandered back out in silence, until Daff finally signed and said, “Chin up, brother. I don’t think this is as humiliating as you expect. And the party Tuesday may actually be the perfect thing for you.” 

“Oh?” Deep down, he was most similar to Fran — they both took after their father in heart — but Daphne, for all her sometimes-smug similarities to their mother, was often an unlikely ally. As the oldest daughter, she empathized with his responsibilities, unlike Ben. She questioned , in a way that Col simply could not; in a way that Eloise, for all her blazing intellect, would not. She wanted the root of things, the truth; she wondered what, with all her Instagram followers, all of this was all for . Underneath all the capital-i Influencing and It-Girling, Daff was a pragmatic, steady sort: She had studied ballet from eleven to sixteen with the Royal Ballet, and Ant felt it had given her a sense of discipline, determination, and patience. She was savvy and clear-eyed about both her place in society and her success via social media. And she’d matured through her relationship with Simon, becoming more intentional and thoughtful. He liked her. Even if now she thought she knew best, always. 

“Yes,” she said firmly. “While I seriously question why you want to get married — seriously question — and what you might be looking for in a partner, the List is like a beacon on a taxi: You’re available. If that’s your goal, you’ll get interest, you’ll get in the path of single women. You're a man in possession of a good fortune and you are in want of a wife. All that Austen crap.” She quirked her lip up as they reached the front door. “Give it a chance, I guess. Be just like, two percent open-minded about what love might look like.” 

“I’ll take all this sisterly advice under advisement,” he said, “and note that this is all quite sentimental from a girl who showmanced her way to an engagement.” He gave her a peck on the cheek before starting down the slate path. 

“True love! Many forms!” She called out with a laugh before shutting the door. 

He made it to the office in record time, spent a solid five hours in his happiest place, reviewing contracts and memos in absolute quiet. As he was leaving he pulled out his phone to text Ben and Col to see if they wanted to meet at the pub to watch a football game — a pint would smooth things over, from both sides — when he saw a curious Instagram notification. His insta was basically a finsta (as Hy would say), with an innocuous handle (@Mallet_Of_Death83) and interesting only to a dozen close friends and family. Therefore a follow request from @LadyWhistledown was surprising. 

He requested the account before allowing it to follow him; it was accepted within seconds. He scrolled all its Followings: the account had Nick and Freddie’s real handles, all of his siblings’, the Goring twins, Siena, Cressida Cowper, Sophie, the Featherington girls, Edwina Sharma, and a few clubs and bars he was very familiar with, even a couple that would be surprising to someone who didn’t know their circles. Several other handles he recognized as the actual accounts of actors, boy-banders, minor celebrities, local models, and society fixtures. Altogether there were only about 150 following, and about half of those followed back. Clearly a new, or exclusive, account. 

There were only three posts, all short bursts of texts on gradient backgrounds, and some stories; he clicked the stories first. A shot of Cressida having brunch with Prudence Featherington, a minor reality-TV mainstay who had been on that stupid show about B-list rich kids gallivanting around London. The second photo was two actors he recognized, but whose names he didn’t remember, sharing a smoke on a picnic in the park. The third was Ben and Soph sitting on a bench near her gallery, looking like they were in serious conversation. 

Weird. 

He went back to the grid. The first was a couplet about a cad making out with two models at Will’s latest pop-up—thinly anonymized, Ant could tell it was Freddie. The second was about two models, also a blind but he had no idea who. 

The third? 

Looks like one of Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelors is back on the market after a failed proposal attempt to Britain’s most talented singer. Get your black books out, ladies. 

Chapter Text

“Nice boys don’t kiss like that.” “Oh yes they fucking do.” — Bridget Jones’s Diary

The March air was soft and crisp as an apple, the pre-dawn light gliding through the fog and casting a cashmere glow over the Thames. Kate dipped a hand into the water: chilly but not hypothermia-inducing. 

Perfect. 

Kate slid the shell into the water, balancing a foot on the Putney Bridge dock and a foot on the bow before gracefully folding into the seat. It was a rental off the wall from the Kensington Club—not as light or nimble as the custom Empacher that her father had gifted upon her Oxford graduation, but that was still stuck somewhere between Amsterdam and London (last she heard, Manchester). However, the  benefits of a 5 AM workout before her second day at a new job, completely outweighed the discomfort of her seat being slightly less cushiony than her bum preferred. She tightened her gray hoodie, tugged her gloves, and pushed off. 

Rowing had been a constant since she was eleven—at first, a sport that also fit her exacting, independent nature; then, a way to disappear into herself among the pressures of Wycombe; in college, a source of friendship and structure; in New York, a connection to her British-desi roots. The water sorted her, always taking the jagged contradictory pieces of her life — all the things people needed from her; the demands on her time; the anxieties and the to-do’s as well as all her hopes and dreams and unvoiced wants — and smoothing them into coherence. Clear her mind into calm. Her arms and legs could protest, her lungs could scream, her brain could tell her she had definitely peaked—and she would feel more whole than after almost anything else besides really, really good sex. 

She took five hundred meters to adjust to the current, then slowly picked up speed as she settled into the proper swing. The last time she had pushed from Putney Bridge had been her fourth-year Boat Race, and the memory made her smile — they’d won by two full lengths, then partied into the night. This morning the roadways were a steady and faraway hum, and the knots in her shoulders and hips and head loosened as she picked up pace. Her thoughts, swirling since she informed Edwina she was moving home, finally quieted and then stopped. There were a few other scullers and even an eight-boat of secondary-school girls out this early, but she barely noticed them as she moved with knifelike efficiency. 

Until, as she was slowly rounding Hammersmith to head back, she noticed him. A lithe, dark, and solitary sculler, puffy vest stretched over his maroon sweatshirt. He had excellent form, low and fast and economical. And he was on track to beat her, each length of his strokes drawing a deeper run than hers. One that she would have been perfectly capable of matching with her own scull, of course.

Well, then.

He rounded as she reset, and she set the goal of keeping pace with him until the final two hundred meters. Then, obviously, she’d kick into gear to beat him. She pulled her strokes more vigorously, worked to keep her shoulders perfectly set and round.

He noticed, gave her a wink and picked up his own pace. Still she hung on, doing a bang-up job, if she said so herself, with the unfamiliar rig. Their strokes synchronized, they drifted closer together. She could hear his vigorous, heavy breath; if she turned—which she allowed herself to do exactly once—she was close enough to see a vein throbbing powerfully in his neck. When she caught his eye, he was smirking; she cackled in turn. 

This was the most fun she’d had since she arrived in London. 

They stayed even until the final hundred meters before he burst ahead, reaching their unofficial finish line with about half a length on her scull. He roared with victorious laughter, until the laugh turned into a wheeze. Clearly he’d gotten a workout too. 

His boat drifted to the dock first and he quickly tied up before heading to hers. She was still throwing the rope over the cleat as he helped pull her in, swiftly knotting it into a hitch. “Not bad,” he remarked, still catching his breath. “Especially for a woman.” 

Men . Always had to ruin everything. 

“And you,” she replied, snatching the rope back, “weren’t too bad for an arsehole.” 

He stepped back with a flinch, returning to his scull. “I meant it as a compliment, no need to get offended.” 

“As did I.” She stretched a calf back, catching and rolling her ankle. “You do know scientists believe that women are more physiologically predisposed to rowing, yes? A better ratio of body mass to bone density.” 

He smirked, putting his hands on his hips. She noticed his shorts were just old sweatpants cut off to the knee, his sweatshirt sliced open at the neckline — a typical public-school look. She also noticed that he was extremely fucking handsome when he smirked. “Sweetheart, all I know is that I rowed at Eton, and I got first place there, and then I rowed for Christ Church—” of course he was a club bro — “and I got first place there. You did well, I meant well, it was just a compliment.” 

“Amazing,” she replied. “See, I rowed for Oxford , and got first place there, so I also think I know what I’m talking about.” 

He stepped back. “Varsity for Oxford?” 

“Three years in the Boat Race, once as captain.” She crossed her arms. “We won.” 

He broke into a disarming laugh, and with the smile, his stupidly handsome face looked vaguely familiar. “I'll take it all back, then. You did terribly . Should have beat my candy arse by about three lengths.” He tossed his boat over his shoulder with a smirk. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of a legend .” 

She gasped, utterly caught off guard, then started laughing. The arsehole had a sense of humor and wasn’t so far up his own. She gave his shoulder a light shove as she passed. “This is a rental , from Kensington. My rig is in transit.” She picked up the scull and heaved it up. “Otherwise, I definitely would have.” 

“Y’just move here?” he asked, matching her pace. 

“Moved back,” she replied. “Raised here, uni at Oxford, but in the States for the last six years.” 

“So you did row growing up?” 

“Since prep.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing you around Kensington.”

She laughed again. The Kensington Rowing & Racket Club, located in the heart of London, was one of the most expensive and exclusive sports clubs in the country. One hundred fifty years old, addition to a boathouse, it had cricket and football pitches as well as a polo field and stables for two hundred horses. The Waleses all boarded their local ponies there. There were sixteen tennis courts, and members hosted the final domestic event before Wimbledon every year, the Queen Eleanor Cup. The place was state-of-the-art everything, with a Michelin-starred restaurant and members lounge that hadn’t allowed women until Margaret Thatcher was elected Prime Minister. Even then, it had been contentious. 

Kate had joined because it was Edwina’s training base and convenient for work, nothing more. Though chai in the all-glass atrium overlooking the river was going to be a perk. This man, though, looked like he belonged to one of the founding families.

“I grew up in Buckinghamshire,” she finally said. “And crewed at much grimier boathouses. My family’s been members for like a year, not a century.” 

He squinted. “What’s your surname?” 

“Ah ah ah,” she said as they approached the shed. “You’re going to have to do much more than beat me at a single race if you want that.” 

She expected to lose him as she returned hers to the rental section, but he remained, arms stuffed in the pockets of the ridiculous cut-off sweatpants. “Figured you would need help getting around the club, since you’re so new and all.” He fell easily into step next to her.

She cocked an eyebrow as they entered the main building and walked toward the locker rooms. “I promise you, I’m a pretty capable human.” 

“But apparently not one who wants company after a hard workout.” 

“All I want after a hard workout is a hot shower.” 

He smirked. “Good company can enhance those, too, if you’re open to that.” 

She looked at him sideways, eyes hooded, unable to mask naked interest. “What did you say your name was, again?” 

“Ah ah ah,” he mimicked her. “You’re going to have to win a race before you get that information. By the way, the womens’ lockers are down that hallway.” He gestured fifty yards away. She’d been walking in the wrong direction since they’d entered, basically. He started to jog away toward the men’s rooms. “Catch you tomorrow?” he called.

“You can only hope,” she called back with a laugh. 

She was still smirking twenty minutes later as she spritzed on her Jo Malone perfume.

Eloise barrelled down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen, perfectly aware that whoever was home could hear her. It was only eight, so she doubted whether Pen had left for work, or  Fran for her internship at the National Theatre, where she had a fellowship to compose a one-act musical. 

Sure enough, both of them, plus Fran’s college boyfriend, were in the kitchen. They looked cozy, Penelope methodically eating a slice of avocado toast and a grapefruit whilst reading one of her latest work manuscripts, Fran and John laugh-arguing over the next clue in some word game on Fran’s phone. 

“Everything is terrible ,”  Eloise announced, slamming open the fridge and letting it bang on the wall. “The world is truly an awful, unfair, inequitable place.” 

Her audience turned to her. “Everything OK, El?” Pen asked mildly. 

She sighed, setting the carafe of OJ on the island and grabbing a glass. “If you must know, Dora broke up with me last night.” 

It garnered the appropriate gasps and cocked heads: 

“Ugh, El, I’m so sorry.” 

“That was completely out of the blue!”

“I never liked her anyways.” 

“Thank you, John, I appreciate it,” she directed toward the boyfriend. She poured herself a three-quarters juice and topped it off with Red Bull — her morning digestif, she called it, she wasn’t fond of tea. 

“Did she say why?” Fran asked sympathetically. 

El flounced into the seat, taking a guzzle before speaking. “She said I wasn’t fully committed to the cause of ending worldwide injustice,” she explained with a sigh. “And that I never could be, given my family and our role in perpetuating colonialist practices for the last four hundred years.” 

“Ah,” Pen said. “Well you do stand to inherit fifty million upon your marriage.” 

“Which I think is patriarchal,” El reminded her. “And I plan to give it away.” She bopped her head as she considered the declaration. “Most of it away.” 

“If she doesn’t like your family, El, there’s really no point or hope. That’s not something you can really change, now can you?” Fran asked. 

“This is Anthony’s fault,” she said darkly.

“That dinner last month was perfectly lovely,” Pen countered. 

“He picked the restaurant and paid for her steak. It was one hundred pounds.” 

“He knew you liked her and wanted to make a good impression.” Fran was always forgiving of Ant. 

“We should have gone for falafels,” El rebutted darkly. You only had one chance to make a first impression.

“Then she would have broken up with you in eight months at Mummy’s Christmas Ball for Orphans—” the event’s actual title, so embarrassing — “and you would have been sad and single during the holidays. And come on, that’s no fun.” 

Wait. “I never said I was sad.” Perhaps she’d been too dramatic. 

“No, it’s worse, you’re surly,” Fran pointed out.

“Perk up, we have the Tatler party tonight. Perhaps there’s a nice young lady there.” 

“I’m not going.” She crossed her arms. “I just got dumped because of Society, I’m not going to go to an annual fete of the social set. ” She repeated the invitation with dripping sarcasm.

“You have to go. It’s Daff and Simon and Ben and Ant’s big moment,” Fran said firmly. “Ant has agreed to photos, and to smile in them. Mum is letting Greg and Hy come and she wants to get a snap for the Christmas card.” 

“And both of my sisters are going to be there. Pippa is bringing Slightly Shady Sasha, and Pru is bringing the cameras,” Pen whined. “You absolutely cannot abandon me, Eloise Eleanor Anne Bridgerton, I stayed with you at that musty old factory until five AM on Saturday night.” 

Pen’s two older sisters were absolutely exhausting society drips, who along with their mother, positively reeked with the scent of trying too hard. Pippa, who was Col’s age, was now engaged to a very skinny, very pale Russian heir named Alexander. He had a penthouse overlooking Harrod’s and a fortune of decidedly questionable means — “oil money.” Not that Lady Featherington cared too much; he had purchased her Aston Martin. Prudence was two years older than them, and for the last three years had been the star of Kensington Bred , a reality show that featured the lives of the “young, rich and titled” in London. Unsurprisingly given its origins, none of the featured players, Pru included, were actually that titled or that rich, and most were not even that young. But now seedy TV cameras followed Pru everywhere, and El’s mum had mandated that Pen avoid those at all costs if she wanted to continue to live, grace-and-favor, in the Notting Hill end-of-terrace house that Ant had purchased when Daff graduated uni.  

“Fine, but only because of that. And if I want to drink gin in a corner after the first twenty minutes, you both have to back Mum off and let me.” 

“Deal,” Francesca said with an eyeroll. Then she softened. “I’m really quite sorry she dumped you, El. I know you really liked her.” 

“Yeah,” she replied, finally deflating contemplatively. She really couldn’t help the family she had been born into, or the fact that she quite liked the lot of them. “Thanks. I really, really did.”

“What necklace do you think, didi?” Edwina asked from behind Kate. 

Fastening her earring into place, Kate turned quickly to assess. Eddie looked ravishing in a black-and-white rhinestone crop top and a black leather skirt, the material stitched into angular pleats. Both were Chanel, she’d said excitedly, sent over after the new brand contract. 

“The chunkier one,” she smiled. “The pattern matches the cut of the top.” The theme was Diamonds, and her little sister matched it literally and metaphorically. 

Edwina beamed. “Good I thought so too.” Clipping it on, she exclaimed, “and you look bloody lovely! Here you said you had nothing to wear.” 

“Sophie,” she explained, edging the hem down a bit. It was an amazing vintage Dior — a one-shouldered, deep purple tunic dress with a massive beaded flower pattern down the front — but it was thigh-skimming on Soph, and Kate had two inches on her. 

“You look fucking fantastic,” Edwina said wistfully. “And your hair looks perfect. Mine’s already frizzing.” 

“What are you talking about? It’s gorgeous.” 

“I suppose.” She played with the hem of her skirt., “I just sometimes I still feel like all this makeup and fuss and at the end of the day I’m still the sporty one who forgets to wear a matching set of socks to practice. Like, I’m going to trip in these heels.” She snorted, then gave her sister a self-deprecating, excited smile. “Luckiest girl in the world and all that, but hardly Most Eligible territory.” 

“Ok, bon, you’re twenty-one. You’re barely eligible. You settle down with any of these men tonight and I may have to have them murdered.” 

“By one of your war criminals?” Eddie teased. 

“I do know many very, very bad people, yes,” she stressed, wide-eyed and faux-serious. “But honestly—you have years to settle down. Have fun, but you need to stay focused. No distractions, no commitments. You’re young! Live a life. Have fun.” 

“You sound like you’re forty-eight and not barely twenty-eight,” Edwina smirked. “What’s your young and fun? We’ve never been grown-ups together, didi.“ 

She thought briefly of Boat Boy, the thrill of maybe seeing him again tomorrow at the crack of dawn on a chilly river. “I,” she reminded her younger sister, “am an extremely old auntie in a young solicitor’s body. Between work, Appa, and getting to hang out with you, I have plenty of things to keep me busy.” She spritzed on one last burst of perfume. 

“But not having fun .” 

“I love all those things!” 

“I believe in solicitor-speak, the witness is evading the question,” Edwina said smartly, doing a last lipstick adjustment. “Come on, isn’t tonight a little fun?” 

She sighed and shook her head a little bit. “Yes, I’m delighted to see Soph and Ben. And to support you and tell you jokes so you relax in all your photos. So yes, fun.” 

Edwina smiled wryly. “But you’d rather be home eating takeaway curry and watching cricket while talking to Appa.” 

“Or, I don’t know, in a dive bar singing karaoke, or watching a game in a pub, or hiking somewhere stupendous with friends. To me it’s my people who make something fun,” she admitted with a smile, fussing with the edge of Edwina’s top. “But I’m serious — this is for you and because of that, bon, nowhere I’d rather be.” 

Edwina grinned, and gave her shoulder a little shimmy. “Well then! Let’s go fete the social set.” 

Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up to Alchemy, a cocktail lounge around the corner from the main event. It was only six, but the bar already had a throbbing, clubby vibe that made it feel much later and that gave Kate a bit of a headache. The decor could only be described as botanical-meets-ancient Egypt, massive indoor plants arcing above them and spooky gold cat statues everywhere. A remix of a vaguely Middle Eastern song pulsed over the speakers, and sconces lent a dim, trendy glow on everything. They were immediately shown back to a roped-off lounge with a few couches; there Ben and Soph sat laughing with another couple — the woman was Daphne, Kate was nearly positive — and a single gentleman. She assumed the other man was the Most Eligible Anthony, as he had the same coloring as Ben.  

“Katie! Edwina!” Ben called, and Kate shrieked a little as he twirled her. “Love I am beyond excited you’re back. I can’t believe you stayed in the States willingly for six years.” 

“Benjamin! New York barely counts, it’s a city of the world!” 

“And yet they serve you hot dogs curdled in water-soup on every street corner, like paupers,” he grimaced. “Come now, you remember my sister Daphne, and this is her fiancé, Simon. This is my brother, Colin, too.” So the non-Eligible one. “Daff, you remember Kate, and this is her Most Eligible sister, Edwina.” 

“Pleasure!” Edwina chirped. 

“So wonderful to see you, and so wonderful to meet you, Edwina. We both got a little tennis-mad last year after you won.” Daff, unsurprisingly, had perfect-hostess manners.

“Thank you, and congrats on your cover. Ben showed it to me on a shoot the other week — you two were both glowing.” 

“Thank you, I was so excited to talk about the wedding. Though calling it the event of the season felt a bit much.” 

Kate tried not to roll her eyes. 

“We’re still waiting on Anthony to arrive but we have a waiter,” Sophie said, handing her a piece of thick white paper with a list of tiny words printed on it. “It’s not a traditional menu, you give them three adjectives from a list of three hundred and they’ll mix the drink for you.” No prices, Kate noticed. “Mine is an Exquisite, Radiant, Rhythmic.” 

“I thought he was hiding out in Hamburg?” Kate asked, scanning the list. Intrepid. Flirty. Quadrilateral. How did that possibly count as an adjective? 

Ben and Colin both laughed. “Our dear patriarch has decided that he’s on the marriage market, if you will, and suddenly wants to meet all of London’s Most Eligible to interview them,” Ben explained cryptically. 

“Moderately Eligible, honestly. Most Eligible would be tough for him to bag,” Colin added, with a wink at Edwina. 

“What?” Kate asked, a tad stupidly, because that was an incredibly stupid sentence.

“Our family is in real estate, and Anthony is in the family business — as am I, honestly, I dabble in investment properties. But right now he runs one of the company’s main subsidiaries, Bridgerton Britain. Don’t spread this, but he’s making a play for the whole kit and caboodle — wants to be CEO and president of Bridgerton Group by this time next year. And he thinks that having a wife will, I don’t know, help him look more president-y.” 

“It’s a bit of an insane perspective, but it’s less crazy if you know Anthony,” Daphne wedged in. “He has his reasons. These two are just unnecessarily harsh with him. Always.” She cut them a slightly exasperated look. 

“It’s literally a business arrangement for him. He’ll want someone nice and pleasant who is happy just playing tennis all day — not the way you do, of course, Miss Edwina, no offense —” Edwina made a face that said none taken — “and then can show up to a charity function or some such for five minutes to take a photo before he splits back to the office. He spends all day working, a relationship is hardly something he has time for. I mean, just this weekend, he tried to propo—” 

“Colin,” Daphne cut off with a smile. “I don’t think you — or you —” she directed at Benedict, and Kate noticed Sophie staring down into her Exquisite/Radiant/Rhythmic cocktail — “really have a leg to stand on here.” 

“Ant’s great, he’s just … very committed to the family and the business,” Simon cut in. 

“Yes, he is.” Daphne’s tone was firm. “Anyways, Kate, Edwina, Sophie — have you seen these plants? I’m quite impressed at how they keep them alive without any natural light. I consider myself a dab hand at gardening and I would be hopeless under these circumstances.” 

“Oh, I’d just kill them even with perfect conditions.” Kate smiled, recognizing Daphne’s attempt to move the conversation on. “Our new house has a lovely garden and I look at it every day and tell the plants, sorry darlings, your days are numbered.” 

Daphne, grateful that she took the bait, returned her smile. “Are you a sportswoman as well, Kate?” 

“Oh no, I’m a solicitor.” 

“She’s a rower,” a voice said from behind her. “A legend, really.” 

She twirled around. Boat Boy, appearing in front of her eyes about eleven hours ahead of schedule. 

“Anthony Bridgerton,” she said, very slowly, finally realizing why his smile had looked familiar that morning.

Daphne cocked her head. “You two already know each other?” 

“Only for about thirteen hours,” Anthony smirked, not taking his eyes off of her. “Though someone has withheld her name, rather intentionally I might add.” 

“Kate Sharma,” she responded, a little on autopilot still. “We … I row, very early, as does your brother, we bumped into each other at the club this morning.” 

Daphne looked between the two of them, and blinked. “Wonderful, Anthony, you’ll have someone to talk to at this party then. About …. Ergs, I’m sure.” 

“Congratulations on making the list, yes,” she told him, because she somehow knew he would hate it. “I’m glad your meeting in Hamburg got canceled, so you can celebrate.” 

“Yes, and what brings you here?” 

“My sister,” she nodded toward Edwina, now happily chatting with Colin. “Also a lucky honoree.” 

“Edwina Sharma.” He put it together. “A member of the club for a year.” 

“Precisely,” she smiled. 

“Can I get you anything to drink, miss?” A waiter appeared at her elbow. 

“Uh, yes, I will have a … Spicy, Badass … Quadrilateral,” she replied. “There’s no rum in that, is there?” 

“I’m sorry, we cannot answer questions like that. We feel it ruins the spirit of the drink.”

“Ah. Well then.” She handed the menu to Anthony. “You order by adjective. And spirit.” 

“Oh fuck me,” he swore. Kate couldn’t help a little hmph of interest, which he definitely noticed. “Heineken. Please.” 

“Sir, unfortunately this is a cocktail lounge and we take our craft …” 

“I will add a hundred quid to your tip if you go next door and you buy a fucking Heineken. In a bottle. Not a can.” 

The waiter nodded. “Very well, then.”

Two hours into the party, Daphne took a deep breath, staring across City and Social, the twenty-fourth-floor restaurant that Tatler had rented out for Black Book. It had been a good night so far: pleasant drinks with her brothers, all on relatively good behavior; good photos with both Simon and then her whole family on the step-and-repeat. But it had taken a lot to get there. Simon, who hated parties, had complained entirely too much during the filming of the featurette; El needed entirely too much cajoling into wearing some blue, so that she would coordinate with the rest of the family; Hy sent one too many excited texts about what to wear and expect for her first big party. 

At least, she thought, it was a fab first party experience. The list this year was unusually good, which always helped.In addition to Edwina and Anthony, they’d gotten the latest hottest actor, who had broken out from an American show and was now James Bond; a celebrity chef who had just divorced his third wife; Aria, a one-very-apt-name pop star; and a new footballer from Spain who played for Chelsea, whom Si was already chatting with. Few things made her intended happier than chatting football.

And of course, Freddie. Since entering the event, Daff had been able to assiduously avoid her ex, who, as third in line to the throne, had been naturally named to the list but who — with agreement from the mag — had not posed for photos and had instead slipped upstairs via freight elevator. They were not enemies, they were not friends; it was simply her longstanding policy that if she could avoid him, she would. Right now, though, he seemed to be quite enraptured by one Miss Edwina Sharma, who was laughing gaily at his jokes.

She scanned for her other siblings: A heartbroken El seemed to be arguing with a bartender, their mother and Penelope placating her; Greg and Hy were splitting an enormous shrimp platter; Sophie and Ben — dear god, they were getting so tiresome — were chatting to one of their Art Friends; Col seemed to be flirting with a young model; Fran and her boyfriend were taking a selfie at the windows overlooking the city. 

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of the vile cameras that followed Prudence Featherington — Daff had never met a more annoying human, truly — pointed in her direction, and she stepped behind a column to avoid it. The break and space was good; her location was inadvertently a perfect vantage point to keep an eye out on Miss Edwina.

“Should I be concerned about … that?” 

She turned. “Kate.” She hid her surprise behind a smile, smoothing her hands down her floral Erdem gown. “I thought you were still talking with my brother.” Truly, Daff had expected Anthony to dip out after twenty minutes, but last she saw him — an hour into the party — he had been arguing with Kate Sharma over whether cricket or rugby was a better sport (both had agreed that football was first, rowing second, and horse racing third but they apparently had clashing opinions on what counted as fourth-best). 

A spot of something flickered across her face. “I’m not sure where he went.” Lies. “I think he had to take a call, or something.” Exactly. “Anyways.” Her eyes flicked toward Freddie. “I met you, once, at a party Ben threw in college. And I know you two were together.” 

“Ah. Yes,” she replied. “No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Freddie. Temporary heartbreak, perhaps, but your sister looks like a strong sort. Freddie doesn’t date anyone seriously.” 

“You dated for five years.” 

“Yes, and he cheated on me, often,” she said. Everyone knew , but it was one of the first times she had truly said it out loud. She did not blame him; they were both young and dumb, they both had generations of family expectation and history heaped on them, they both had been absolute shit at managing interest in themselves or their relationship. “He’s grown up, though. Now he just doesn’t commit.” 

Kate’s eyes were understanding. “‘I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“You truly don’t have anything to worry about, there. He’s honest about his shortcomings.” She smiled wryly. “Our family … was very close to the boys growing up. Father and Prince Richard went to school together. Our mother was younger than our father, so she was closer in age to Princess Emma, and a friend and peer. Emma … well, that’s a long story, not worth getting into. My point,” she redirected herself, “Is that Ant, Ben, Simon, Nick … they were all thick as thieves, growing up. At Eton, always together. And then Colin and Freddie were in the same form. So from the time I was young, it was quite natural that Freddie and I would fall together. When we did, I was sixteen, and Freddie eighteen. Young and foolish and in over our heads.” 

And at the end of the day, she could not save him from his family, or himself. 

It had been all she wanted to do, the whole relationship, and eventually she realized that she could only save herself. 

And then there was Simon. It felt a bit ridiculous that something that started as a ruse to cover her broken heart had turned into something so solid and true, but connecting with him had caused something within her to unfurl — and vice versa. She’d no idea that a relationship need not be a roller coaster, or that pain was not an indicator of passion, and they’d gently, inadvertently felt those things out with each other. It still filled her with awe, wonder, gratitude, to know someone so deeply, to learn more about herself through his eyes, to be emboldened to be the fullest and sharpest version of herself because of that. To give and therefore to have more. It was not always easy, and they were certainly vastly different people. But the sureness she felt about herself, as a direct result of him and their relationship, was empowering, and delightful. 

“Ah.” Kate brought her back to earth. 

“And then Si, and Ben, and Nick, and Anthony…” She struggled for words, struggled to understand what exactly she was trying to communicate, and why, to this perfect stranger. But, Kate had a younger sister, and Daff knew what that was like. “All of them, with our parents, were a little bit like the lost boys. Groping around for a bit, but they all sort of found their ways and they still stick together. Nick is married, happier, settled. Ben and Ant have their jobs, which they love. Simon has me.” She smiled, thinking of him, their whole grand life ahead. “But Freddie … Freddie is Peter Pan.” After the breakup he enlisted in the Army and did two tours. He came home physically unscathed but somehow more emotionally scarred. 

“I just need to make sure Edwina isn’t Wendy, then.” 

“Precisely, but she seems sensible.” She shook the vestiges of nostalgia off. “Anyways. A solicitor, you said?”

“Yes, I focus on human rights. I worked at a firm in New York and served on a UN commission as well. Now I’m  at A&O, where I’ll be leading some of their human-rights pro bono litigation as part of their overall multinational HR practice. It’s a little … gory.”

“Oh?” 

“I … bring civil charges against war criminals.” She blushed. “This year, my docket is mostly human traffickers and some Sudanese military officials. War crimes, but we’re going to get them with financial fraud. Hardly a great topic at a Tatler party.” 

“Yes, it does seem a bit dark,” Daphne agreed. “Though our sister Eloise is studying law and would love to discuss, I’m sure. And I consider myself quite charitable, and my mother and I team up often for a good cause. If you ever find yourself in need of a fundraising gala for a victim, we’d be happy to support.”   

Kate opened her mouth, seemingly to say something smart, and then closed it. “Yes, thank you. I will try and keep an eye out.” 

“You seem a savvy sort.” Daphne gave her a shrewd smile. “I have no doubt.”

Two and a half hours into the party — a full two hours longer than she had expected to stay, Kate had to admit — Lord Anthony Bridgerton turned to Kate and asked, “Do you want to get out of here?” 

She blinked, a little caught off-guard. Based on Ben and Colin’s description, she had expected him to be circulating heavily at this event. Perhaps setting up at a booth with an iPad and a list of questions for the Moderately Eligible. Instead, with the exception of a call (she had tried, and failed, to catch the name on his phone) he’d been here, with her. At a tiny bar table a few feet off the main action, arguing — okay, flirting, very forthrightly — the entire time. “Excuse me?” she finally managed, still a bit dumbly.

He pointed to her plate. “You have barely eaten. I hate these fucking artisanal cocktails. Do you want. To Get. An actual meal?” 

Ah. “I’m vegetarian,” she explained. “Everything filling had meat.” 

“Great. Then, let’s get out of here.” 

She looked around. She absolutely would not be seen leaving with him. “I’m going to go say goodbye to Edwina. You go downstairs. I’ll meet you at the corner of Broad and Winchester.” 

Edwina was still talking to the gingery-haired prince — Kate really should have done a better job chaperoning — but she slipped away when Kate caught her eye. “Yes, didi, are you having a good time?”

“A fine time,” she replied, smiling. “ You seem to be having a great deal of fun though.” 

Edwina’s eyes sparkled. “A magical night.” 

“I’m glad.” She tucked Edwina’s hair back. “I’m going to head out, though — early morning tomorrow, I’ll see you after your practice for dinner, eh?” 

“Oh, you’re going home, then?” Edwina asked, onto her. “Hmm, I don’t see Viscount Bridgerton anywhere.” She lifted a hand flat above her eyes, pretended to scan the crowd.

She gave her sister a warning look. “Bon. I’m tired. It’s been a long few days, and I’m going to grab food and rest .” She gave her a quick hug. “Have fun and be careful, OK?” 

“ You have fun,” her sister called, an intentional callback to earlier that evening. “And, wait, you be careful too!” 

“Fuck you and goodnight!” she called back.  

She grabbed her coat, and mentally prepared herself for the two-block walk through the early spring cold. Anthony was waiting exactly where she told him to, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill. 

He really did have stupidly perfect shoulders. 

She should hate where this was going. 

“You have any place in mind? You’re the hungry one,” he said.

“Actually —” She checked her phone. Yes, the restaurant was still open. “D’you mind a cab ride toward Belgravia?” 

“Not at all,” he replied, shrugging. 

“Great.” She reached out a hand, and one of London’s classic black cabs, its light a beacon, started heading toward them. 

“Wait a second,” he said, his chest warm against her back, as the car slid next to them. Strong hands sure on her hips, he spun her around. Nuzzled his nose against hers until she looked at him through her lashes, a quiet yes. Crashed his lips against hers — forceful, breathless, a little dirty, sharp. He pulled back, then bit her lower lip lightly. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an arsehole this morning,” he admitted.

“Well, I planned on doing the same tomorrow morning,” she replied, dragging him by the hand into the cab. 

“So what you mean is I beat you at something for the second time today?” he quipped, and she let out a loud ha , before taking his face in her hands to kiss him again.  

They made out the entire fifteen-minute cab ride. She probably should have been embarrassed but simply could not be. He was — unsurprisingly — an excellent kisser, unrelenting and exploratory and intent on figuring out what she liked. His hands were everywhere, under the short hem of the dress, tugging through her updo, ghosting along her breast. They were fucking magnificent hands.

They tumbled out in front of the restaurant, a glowing, chrome and glass storefront on a street that was otherwise completely empty, about a five-minute walk from the Royal Brompton Hospital. Best Indian food in London outside of Southall. 

“The Bombay Biryani Cafe?” he squinted as he read the neon-and-orange signage. 

“The name is questionable, but the food is fantastic.” She opened the glass door, a bell tinkling above. He blinked at the fluorescent light. She wondered when the last time he stepped on linoleum was. 

It was a sparse, economical place: A counter, with the menu hanging over, written out in plastic clip-in letters, directly in front when you walked in. To the right, there was a cooler of drinks; on the left open shelving stuffed with spices and other Indian staples that you couldn’t find in a tesco.  The kitchen was directly behind the counter, a grimy dining area — mostly folding tables with plastic chairs — was to the left of the cooking area. , a series of folding tables with plastic chairs ran alongside the kitchen.

“Heineken, right?” she said, grabbing two bottles out of the cooler. “Bottles not cans?” She crossed to grab two tins of her preferred chai, and set them on the counter as well. 

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well then. What’s good?” 

She greeted the sleepy older gentleman in Hindi, before realizing Marathi was probably the better language. In Marathi, she said, “I’ll have the dal charwal. He’ll have chicken biryani.” She looked at him then added in English, “Not spicy.” 

“I love spice,” he protested. 

“Not here, you won’t,” she responded, handing over the Heineken. “You’re paying, too, Mr. Most Eligible.” 

The attendant looked deeply unamused. 

“How’d you find this place?” he asked five minutes later, as they sipped their beers and waited for the food. He hadn’t asked yet what she’d ordered him, which impressed her. 

“My dad. He was a heart surgeon — head of cardiothoracic down the street at Royal Brompton when I was growing up. When I was home from school, I’d come down and meet him here.” 

“Edwina too?”

“She was too young.” Then, without quite knowing why she did it, she continued. “She’s my half-sister, technically. My amma — mother — died when I was four; Appa remarried two years later. Mum had Edwina the next year.”

“Ah,” he said. “I’m sorry, I lost my dad, too.” 

“I remember. From Ben. How old were you?” 

“Eighteen,” he took a swig of his beer. “Your dad — appa, sorry — he’s retired now?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Not his choice, but he actually has Parkinson’s. Can’t really fuss with someone’s heart if your hands won’t stop shaking.” 

“Is that why you moved back?” 

She paused, surprised he connected the dots. “Yeah. And Edwina’s career is taking off, obviously. He’d been getting treatment every other week at Columbia for the last six years, which kept it at bay. But it’s progressing, and he can’t make the trip anymore.”  She wasn’t sure what else to say, how to articulate — or even whether to articulate — how fundamentally his illness had rearranged her life, re-evaluated her priorities as she had assumed taking care of his health. Her family was the most important thing in the world to her: Mum had never made her feel like a step-anything; Edwina had been her best friend since she met her. She’d do anything for them. 

But her father was their family’s bright beating heart. Her earliest memories were his soothing voice and tight arms as he held her at Amma’s funeral. He would always be the most important man in the world to her; he would always come first. 

And Ant, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by, seemed to get it. 

“He’s had it for six years?” 

“Ten. He got diagnosed when I was eighteen.” 

A look passed between them, interrupted only when the food arrived. 

“Dig in,” she said. “This is some of the best fucking Indian food in all of London.” 

He took a bite. “OK, you were right. This is plenty spicy.” 

She smirked. “I’m often right.” 

“As am I.” 

She grinned, her chest tightening in a way she didn’t fully expect.

“Well then,” he said twenty minutes later, in a perfectly businesslike tone. “Your place or mine?” Their food was finished, they’d been playing footsie while he mindlessly stroked the back of her hand for the last few minutes. 

“The night is continuing, my lord?” she teased. “You should, I don’t know. Ask me? A lady likes to be seduced.” 

“You? Really? I’m happy to, you just … seem to prefer things said directly.” 

He was right, there, but she wasn’t going to say that. “We’re not going to my place, I live with Edwina and I don’t want to know, at this very moment, know whether or not she is either having sex with your sister’s ex in our house, or if she went home with him. It’ll utterly ruin the mood.” 

He grimaced. “I mean, I’ve known Freddie since his christening—”

“Ruining. The mood,” she repeated, tapping a nail against his palm. 

“So my place, then? Pretty sure Ben will be at Soph’s and Colin … well, he’s an idiot, nothing to worry about there.’ 

“Sure,” she said. She cleared her throat. “I do want to be clear, though — I’m not looking for anything serious. I don’t want a boyfriend, or a relationship.” Given Col and Ben’s information, she felt it kind to put her cards on the table. “But if you’re offering, I’ll take one night of fun.” 

And that was how, nineteen hours after she called him an arsehole, five hours after she learned his name, and two hours after he kissed her, she tumbled into Anthony Bridgerton’s bed. 

Chapter Text

“I think we’re both missing an opportunity here”— Four Weddings and a Funeral

Monday had been absolute shit for Lord Anthony Bridgerton: a contract negotiation for a wind farm in Scotland nearly went south due to some lawyers’ bollocks riders, and Siena refused to answer his calls or texts about the gossip blind item on Instagram. He had stayed at the office until 10, wrote one too many emails after one too many tumblers of whisky, and had crashed into bed with the beginnings of a hangover as well as dread about the infernal Black Book party. 

Tuesday started markedly better, when his row-the-hangover-away plan got a bump by his run-in and subsequent spontaneous matchup against the gorgeous stranger — it was certainly enough to keep his whinging about The List to a minimum. And then his day got a serious boost when he found out the gorgeous stranger’s name, realized she was a friend of Ben’s, got to spend most of the party happily chatting her up in a corner. It did take  a dip when Siena finally returned his calls halfway through the party, angrily insisting that she had not leaked anything to some “stupid raggedy Instagram account, my people leak to Hello , honestly Bridge.” He’d snapped something right back about her owing him honesty, they’d hung up. But then he got to end his night eating some of the best Indian food of his life — far, far away from the booths of Gymkhana — before bundling an eager Kate Sharma into a cab back to his apartment. 

But Wednesday. Fucking Christ, Wednesday was magnificent. Wednesday started at 12:03 AM, with him pressing Kate against the wall of the lift to his apartment, half-hard already and unable to wait any longer to touch her all over. She didn’t mind, knotting her fingers into his hair and not letting go, the angle pushing her chest directly into his as she kissed him enthusiastically. She had miles and miles of legs — he had not been able to stop staring all night — and with her heels, he was able to notch her pert ass perfectly on the handrail in the lift, stepping easily between her legs. She pulled him closer, locking a leg around his thigh to direct him where she wanted him. One of his hands bruised into her hip, yanking her skirt up, and the other fluttered against her thigh, fingers mindlessly tracing circles, drawing closer and closer to the center of her. He’d been as gentlemanly as possible up till the elevator, but she was a relentless kisser, heady and in every one of his senses, and he began to mouth down her neck as he finally, finally, slid his palm up and under the elastic of her lace panties to grip an asscheck.

“Don’t — hickeys — work,” she gasped, tugging his hair to bring his eyes level with hers, underscoring he seriousness. She didn’t seem like the type to fuck around, and he nodded — he got it. She started kissing him again, tongue dancing in his mouth. She assertively took the lead, pushing into him further, , yanking his shirt out and beginning to unbutton it. He groaned as her fingers danced over his abs and down to palm his cock through his pants. “How — long — lift ride?” 

“A bit, penthouse,” he responded, trailing his fingers up and around to her stomach. Was that — a bellybutton ring? 

Fuck.

The bell dinged. “It’s ensuite,” he said as the doors slid open to his living room. “If you don’t — Colin’s an idiot but he’s not deaf.” She quickly took off her heels, putting her, he reckoned, just about two inches shorter than him. Her hair, which had been in a thick, straight ponytail that morning and then an updo that evening, was coming undone, beginning to twist and spring. He wondered if she had naturally curly hair; he realized he wanted to know this fact about her desperately. 

“You uh, want water?” She nodded, clearly not wanting to be caught by speaking, and he quickly poured two glasses before handing her one. He finished his in a single gulp.

He saw her cast her eyes out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the open-plan living room, take in the view of the Eye across the river. He had purchased the Strand penthouse when he started LSE and Daff and his mom had brought in their favorite decorator, who seemed to follow a Pinterest board for “bachelor”: lots of leather, chrome, glass. It felt like something that should suit. Ben had moved in a year later and, while he’d added a substantial art collection to the walls, he didn’t really extend his eye to the rest of the space. Anthony wondered, for the first time in eight years, why not.  

Kate shrugged off her coat and put it on a barstool at the marble island, sat her shoes and purse on the seat. He recognized that move for what it was — an escape plan — and determined that he would do his best to convince her to stick around. 

She sat her half-finished water down with an expectantly-raised eyebrow, and he tugged her toward him, kissing her again and walking toward his room.  “Uh, manners. Ben’s down that hallway—” he gestured vaguely behind him, unpinning his cufflinks, “Colin’s direct off the kitchen,” another throwaway arm motion, his jacket discarded — “I’m down this way.” 

“All of you keeping a list on a bathroom wall of your conquests?” she teased, clever fingers undoing his tie without breaking the kiss. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it drop to the ground. 

“It’s a regular American frat movie.” He slid his hands under her skirt, peeled them under her panties in retaliation. He pushed her against the closed door, dropped the underwear, ghosted his fingers against soft thighs and through warm folds as she worked her mouth against his neck — I thought you said no hickeys, he thought deliriously, dropping his head on her shoulder — and unbuckled his belt before reaching into his boxer-briefs. 

“I — oh,” she groaned, as he pressed two fingers against her wet heat simultaneously, testing her, twitching his thumbnail against her clit. She was so warm, so tight, as he corkscrewed two fingers inside of her. She shuddered, groping for his cock, finally trailing two fingers down it, so gently it was almost ticklish, before gripping him more firmly — he surprised himself with a noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan. For a second or thirty, their kisses lost all coherency, simply breathing into each other, lips and noses everywhere and nowhere as they adjusted to the sensation of each other’s hands. “Is this you?” she finally asked, breathlessly, insistently. She reached behind her, one hand slipping for the knob. 

“Yes,” he said roughly, wrapping his free arm around her waist to guide her hand to the hand, twisting it. Pushing her gently against the door to open it. Teamwork. “Get. Inside,” he said, half-demand, half-plea.

“ You get inside,” she retorted, and he began to push their bodies against the door more purposefully. It sprang open and she fell in slightly, a little off balance, and they stumbled away. 

“That’s the plan,” he replied, reaching back for her. 

Her eyes were dark and wanting, and he knew that he was in a half-wrecked state of disshabile. “I really hope that wasn’t an Office reference,” she quipped, twisting to slip a hand under her armpit to unzip the dress. He was glad she was handling it; he’d been trying to feel around earlier and hadn’t figured out how to get it off. It looked expensive, and she was clearly the type of woman who would be annoyed, not impressed, if he ripped her clothes as an expression of passion.  

“Fuck,” he apologized, but he saw the mirth in her eyes. “It was absolutely not intended to be. I am far smoother than that.” 

She chuckled, which made him laugh too, falling against him and running her fingers teasingly through his hair again, before taking his chin between two of her fingers and appraising him with a wry, hooded smile. She was so close her lashes brushed his cheeks. She had promised a night of fun and this was it, airy and mind-blowingly sexy and natural and sure-footed and just … light. Entrancing. Mind-clearing. 

It was exactly the type of night he needed.  

He lifted the dress over her head, breaking eye contact only at the last minute, revealing a matching black lace strapless bra and yes, a belly ring. Taking the dress from him, she folded and set it gently on his dresser. “It’s Sophie’s mom’s, and vintage,” she explained. “And you’re lucky I like the American version, or that would be a much bigger penalty.” 

He pulled her to him, walking back to the bed and sitting down. She climbed into his lap. “And my punishment would be?”  

He lost his pants and socks, and they fell backwards with a thunk, trading banter and kisses until he informed her that he’d like to go down on her very much, please. She was vocal and precise — there, yes, god, more — and assertive as he moved down her body. He gave a pert nipple a tug, traced figures around and over her breasts and, because he couldn’t help it, gave the belly button ring a quick bite. “Counselor is surprising the witness,” he remarked on his way down. Kneeling on the floor, he dragged her by the upper thighs to the edge of his bed 

She laughed again, breathless and delirious, grasping his hand and keeping it on her breast, as he began to his fingers through her folds, using his right to spread her while his left gently pressed her legs apart. “I had a nose ring in uni. Can’t solicit with that though really, so — decided this could be my little secret.” Her feet slid up, toward his hips, she began to use her toes to tug him down to where she wanted him far more.

“It’s fucking sexy,” he swore, flicking his tongue against it once more, lingering there, hands still very busy below. 

“You are as foolish as you are handsome,” she panted, rising onto her elbows, “if you will not get on with this.”  

He slid quickly back up to press a hard, fast kiss to her mouth, surprising her by simultaneously sinking two fingers into her. “Nobody,” he said roughly, “would ever call me foolish.” Her laugh, as he returned his full attention to her sex, was bright and delighted.  

He licked into her, angling his palm down using two fingers to spread her wide as his tongue went from her cunt to her clit and back; pressing his other hand to her thigh to keep her from bucking too hard, and to keep up a secondary source of sensations as he figured out what worked best for her. He would normally tease a woman a bit more, but it was their first time so he readily accepted directions when she tried to maneuver his hands or his mouth somewhere new. She began to move in a hard, undulating rhythm against his face and he worked to match it, alternating between sucking and circling her clit intensely as she crested fast  toward an orgasm.

She came relatively quickly with a shout and one leg tightening around his upper back involuntarily. Proud, he climbed back up her body, checking quickly before moving to kiss the dazed look off her face. 

She leaned into his body, lying sideways against him; after a few minutes, she used her knee to push him flat on his back. “My turn,” she said authoritatively, licking her palm stroking down his happy trail to grip his cock. With a careful look and a brush of her hair — now positively wild — over her shoulder she curled over him, licking a stripe straight from his balls to his tip.

With a grin, he fell back, reaching for her hair as she began to suckle his head.

Her mouth was its own religious experience, and she occasionally flicked her dark eyes up at him carefully, gauging what he liked, adjusting. Before long he was groaning, “I’m close,” and she quickly bobbed her head — tight and fast — twice more, twisted the base of his cock, let him come on her chest. 

With a bit of a wry, triumphant look, she crawled back up his body. He gave her a brief, grateful kiss, then grabbed some tissues to help them both clean up. 

They lay there, lazily making out; eventually, she pulled on his shirt and went to grab snacks from the kitchen. They chatted as they ate, but then — “Crumb,” he said, thumbing at the corner of her mouth.

She grabbed his hand to lick it off his finger, and within five minutes he was rolling a condom on.  

At some point after, she told him to put his hands somewhere safe, and she promptly fell asleep on him. He followed not long after, but awoke less than three hours later to her stepping on the bag of smoked-bacon crisps and issuing a not-quiet, “Shit.” 

“Kate?” he groaned, sitting up with a start, taking in her state — full lips, sleepy eyes, some bruises blooming already across her chest, a few bite marks, a beard-burn on her thigh, messy hair. Glorious. Botticelli would have no notes. “Are you sneaking out on me?” 

She had the temerity to blush a little, but her eyes were clear. “It’s still my third day of work. We didn’t get much sleep so I’m going to go row.” She raised a defiant brow. “Otherwise I’ll fall asleep during some ungodly boring seminar on how not to sexually harass the white male partner I work with.” 

He yawned. “I am pretty sure that yesterday, you said that we would have a rematch in the morning.” 

“I — well, yes, but also, yesterday I did not think I would fuck you and then get about three hours of sleep.” 

“Promise is a promise,” he said, stubbornly, standing up. There were crisps all over the floor — how? “I don’t back out of commitments and you don’t seem the sort.”

“I — I cannot work out in vintage Dior.” She crossed her arms, inadvertently making her chest look very tantalizing. 

He shrugged. “That was Sophie’s right? She keeps loads of stuff in Ben’s room.” He moved past her, quickly putting his hands on her hips and mindlessly pressing a kiss of reassurance to her forehead. 

“Wait,” she said, and he turned. She threw his boxer briefs at him. “In case Colin wakes up.” He slipped them on; as he was walking out the door, he spied her panties and thoughtfully kicked them inside the room as well. He could hear her laughing again as he went poking into his brother’s closet. 

Fifteen minutes later, her in  a sweatshirt and joggers of Soph’s and, travel mugs of espresso in both of their hands, they were in his Jaguar coupe heading to the Club. She seemed a bit edgy for the first time since he met her twenty-four hours ago, fiddling with all the console buttons and needling him about being “Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton” as he drove through the quiet streets. 

“Your rig arrive yet?” he asked, trying to distract her as he turned into the underground parklot.

“Currently somewhere in a warehouse in South London,” she said with a sigh. “Hoping today. But you get one more bye this morning, I suppose. Then it’s all over for you.” 

“Oh, so we are doing this again, then?” He saw an opening, and dove right into it. “Perhaps we wager.” 

She blinked, surprised to be caught. “Last night was lovely, very needed, and off the table,” she said firmly. “Like I said, new job, new city, my dad, Edwina ….” She leaned over and gave him a deep, full kiss. It tasted of good-bye, and he knew she meant it. “But if you beat me, I’ll give you my number, and you can get an early-morning rowing buddy out of this.” 

He rowed his fastest four miles since leaving Oxford, but she hardly looked disappointed as she typed her digits into his iPhone. 

She smirked as she handed it back, and he looked at the entry. Kate “The Legend” Sharma.

Colin looked around the assembled Mid-gertons — plus Pen, practically a Bridgerton after the last eighteen years — to quickly assess their physical states. Unsurprisingly, everyone looked wan and hungover behind their Chanel sunglasses, blinking in the bright Wednesday sunlight. He was definitely sympathetic — noon was much too early for a weekday brunch. 

But he was not too sympathetic, as he knew he got much less sleep than any of them, and that was the reason he dug right in as soon as the food arrived. 

“Alright, as the Ranking Bridgerton and the one who called this meeting — I hereby call this assembly to order.” 

“That’s literally not a thing, Colin.” Daphne’s tone was harsh, and her voice raspy. She was hunched into a black leather jacket over a purple cashmere Miu Miu sweater dress, and he decided she was more hungover than she usually got. “‘Ranking Bridgerton,’ my left foot.” 

“There’s Mummy and Ant and then everyone else is an equal member,” Fran agreed, voice soft and sleepy. “Parliamentary democracy and all.” 

“Weren’t our lot in the House of Lords?” Pen mused, chewing a French fry. 

“You know, ever since you returned from Asia and Ant and Ben let you move in, you have been quite full of yourself,” El snarked. She’d thrown up in a cab last night, per Pen, and had the mood to match the hangover. 

Still, he did not have time for this nonsense, and banged a hand on the table to bring the group to order. “We’ll work that out later. It is debrief time .” 

Such a brunch had become relatively regular for the day after a big event, giving the five of them a chance to gossip and say all the things that manners dictated they otherwise keep to themselves . It started when El, Pen, and Fran — who had graduated Edinburgh in three years — had all arrived in London last summer after uni, and he had landed back on the island around the same time. It was honestly fun to hang out with his sisters like this again. 

Daff started. “First, Pen — is your sister OK?” Prudence, toward the end of the night, had tumbled out of a bathroom tugging the hair of one Lady Daniela Fairchild, screaming absolute bloody murder. 

“Yes of course.” She blew a strand of hair away from her face. “Pru staged that entire scene for the camera. They’re filming the season finale. Poor Daniela is so dim and kind, she had no idea it was coming.” 

“Charlotte Queensbury isn’t going to like that,” Fran observed. 

Queen Char, as she styled herself, was the daughter of the second son of an earl, who himself had been one of Britain’s premiere wartime journalists in the Second World War. A legendary, well-sourced , Queen Char was the head of Conde-Britain, the publishing house running Tatler, Town and Country and British Vogue . Her tastes and preferences generally drove Society — she was its gatekeeper and its recordkeeper. The Black Book was her baby, and something as lowbrow as a reality TV fight at the release would not fly with her. 

“Whistledown is already running it,” El replied, sipping her mind-boggling, probably deadly, Red Bull digestif. 

“What is?” Colin asked. 

“It’s this new Insta account for blind items and ‘spotted’ photos, gossipy things like that,” she explained. At their confused looks, she continued, “It follows all of you. Last night she said something about it.” 

“How do you know the account is legit?” Daff asked. She’d gotten plenty of attention when dating Fred; he got her concerns. 

“It tagged Freddie’s finsta a couple of days ago.” El shrugged. “So she knows people, at least. And she was right about Anthony’s break up with Siena. Had it within hours.” 

Speaking of. “Excellent segue, El.”

“Yes, Col, why are we assembled here?” Daphne said, a touch sarcastic. “Here to tell us that Anthony left with Miss Kate Sharma? They were hardly discreet.” 

He set his jaw, trying not to feel like his thunder was stolen. “Here to confirm it. They stumbled into the apartment after midnight and proceeded to have very loud sex.” 

“Well that’s not surprising. He spent most of the evening acting like he was seconded to her. I spoke to her a bit, she’s nice and a bit intense. I got the sense she’s a very accomplished solicitor. Worked for the UN and rambled off on catching Sudanese military officials with financial fraud.” 

“Finally another intelligent woman around the family,” Eloise quipped. 

“That is not the worst — or best — part though,” Col said, to regain control of the conversation. He had called the meeting, he was the Ranking Bridgerton. “I was awoken not three hours later by them sneaking out together.” Now there was confusion — Kate leaving would be innocuous, but both of them? “To go rowing.” Anthony always said nothing made him more feel awake than rowing or sex, and it appeared he must be feeling very alive today. “ Together. ” 

“Well.” Daff blinked. “They really are quite similar.” 

“It appears we may have found a new Lady Bridgerton,” Col announced triumphantly. 

Fran frowned. “Have we, though?” 

El nodded. “I agree. We have not.” 

“What do you mean?” Col asked, indignant. 

“Think about what he has described — he wants a wife, he wants to settle quickly, and wants someone who can support him as the head of an esteemed company and family. That type of woman that would be there for him, unequivocally, and know his world, someone who soothes instead of stimulates him,” Fran said. “You may not agree with his desires but you have to respect what he says about them.”

“Sounds like he wants someone who fits in and Kate Sharma was born to stand out,” Pen said, slowly peeling apart layers of her croissant. 

“That was very clever, Pen,” he said, impressed, and she blushed. 

“She’s too good for him.” El was more succinct. 

“I don’t think that’s true. Just very different in the ways that matter to him.” Fran said. 

Daphne seemed to consider, then said, “Well you did say yesterday that he was going to wed a dull, sweet and vapid society type.” 

“I did,” Col said, momentarily flummoxed by the analysis. “Wait — Daff, you know I don’t consider you a dull, sweet, and vapid society type, yeah?” 

“Of course I know that.” His favorite sister gave him a reassuring pet to the arm. “Besides, I consider myself an interesting, ambitious, and funny society type.” 

“Moderately ambitious,” El suggested. 

“Yes, how is your dismantling of capitalism going?” Daff replied, though without malice. “We’re all products of our upbringing. Best to recognize, it’s kinder on oneself.” 

“Anything else exciting happen last night?” Pen asked. “I was too busy dodging TV cameras to notice much.” 

“I saw Edwina Sharma leave with Freddie,” Fran volunteered. “When John and I were at coat check, they were sneaking out the freight elevator.” 

“Her sister won’t like that.” Daff frowned. “Asked me all sorts of questions about him.” 

“Sounds like the Sharma sisters are going to take Society by storm this year though,” Pen mused. 

“There was also Helen Goring calling Cressida a bitch for the wig thing, and that terrible Most Eligible chef definitely hooked up with a waiter,” El said. 

“Ooooh. Male or female? I’ve heard stories,” Daff said. 

Boring, boring, boring. Brunch could clearly adjourn. “On that note, I should really be going into the office,” Col stood. “Lovely to see you all. Fred and I are going to Will’s club tonight if you’re keen to join. And repeat Friday after the Chopard party?” 

“I’m not going, but don’t forget Sophie’s gallery opening on Saturday,” Fran said. 

“Right-o. Good looking out, Fran.” 

“You know, Col, Ant might respect your contributions more if you showed up to BG before noon on the regular. Just a thought,” Daff said archly. 

He shrugged. “I’m an ideas man, and those can strike at any moment. Ant knows that.” And with a kiss to each of his sister’s cheeks and a nod to Pen, who waved back, he was off.

“And that’s how I determined that saving the sea turtles was going to be my lifelong passion.” Lady Daniela Fairchild simpered behind her empty martini glass. His mother had once described her as one bloom short of a full bouquet , which Daff had deemed ‘uncharitable;’ after tonight, Anthony thought Violet’s description was quite forgiving. 

“Fascinating,” Anthony responded, though not without enthusiasm. “I’m glad they have you.” Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nine o’clock on the dot. “Thank you, so much, Daniela, for the pleasure of your company this evening. I hope it made up for the rough night you had Tuesday.” 

“My head does hurt a little less,” she said with a smile, touching where Prudence Featherington had whacked her with a Hermes bag. Anthony really did hope Daniela’s father found her a good solicitor, but he admittedly was not that bright of a man. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Maybe a club? Tribe opens in two hours, we could eat dinner first.” 

“I’m afraid not.” He stood, briskly dusting off his pants. “Bridgerton Britain doesn’t run itself — I’m planning on returning to the office.” 

“OK. Maybe another drink next week?” she asked brightly. 

“I don’t think that will work out.” He extended a hand for her to shake. “Have a wonderful night, Daniela.” 

While the rest of the week did not match the highs of pre-dawn Wednesday morning, Anthony’s week continued in a busy and productive fashion, and in between work and morning row dates with Kate, he’d even managed to compile and rank a list of the Moderately Eligible  women in London he should try to date. After Col filled him in on the scene at the Black Book party, he felt it kind to start with Daniela. 

He wouldn’t head back to the office, but he wasn’t lying that he needed to work. He dug through his briefcase for his valet ticket, rifling past his Epi-Pen, his keys, a takeaway menu from the Indian place Tuesday night. His phone buzzed, probably for the thirtieth time that evening. The solicitor again: There’s not much we can do until Monday . 

Before he gave it too much thought, he decided to give it a second opinion, and whipped out his phone..

She picked up after two rings. “Hello?” Kate asked, voice breathless but confused. 

“Hey,” he said, voice warming as he handed over the ticket. “How’s your Friday night going?” 

“One sec,” she responded, clearly distracted, and suddenly her voice cut away and into another language before she muted herself. “Sorry,” she said, a full thirty seconds later. 

“At your parents’?” he asked.

“How’d you guess?” she quipped. “Yes, but I grabbed the dog and we’re going out in the garden now.” He filed the dog into his brand-new, ever-expanding Kate File. He wondered what language they spoke at home, he wanted to know that too. 

“How is your dad? Um, appa, sorry.” He didn’t remember too much about Parkinson’s, beyond that one actor having it; he knew it was neurological but couldn’t recall if it was fatal. 

She paused, then sounded uncertain. “He’s fine. Or, you know. In his regular state. After a decade his PD is advanced, but it’s under control.”  

“Does he … use a wheelchair?”

“Occasionally.” Her tone was friendly, but brisk. “Tonight was just the second week of a new tradition — Edwina and I come out for dinner every Friday.” 

He recognized the deflection for what it was. “Ah. We do the same on Sunday. Brunch though.” 

“If it’s anything like Tuesday I imagine it’s entertaining, at least.” 

“I didn’t interrupt dinner, though, did I?”

“What? No. We ate early. Edwina went back. She has an early conditioning session tomorrow.” He raised his eyebrow — according to Col, Edwina was texting with Freddie plenty, but he wasn’t going to get in between that if he wanted Kate to extend her ‘one night of fun’ policy . “I stayed to watch cricket with my dad and get some work done.” 

Fuck, he hoped he wasn’t bothering her. “What’s the work? It’s your first week. Late-breaking war crimes?” As the valet handed him his keys, he gave him fifty quid and slid into the car.

“Not everything I do at Allen & Overy is litigation.” Her voice was amused — still guarded, but he liked to think he was chipping away at her walls. “It’s kind of your world, actually. M&A reached out — they have a client looking at an acquisition to break into a new market, but the candidate and market is dicey, so I”m doing a risk-assessment memo as part of due diligence. They want it Monday, and I want to go to Sophie’s show tomorrow evening, so tonight it is.”

He’d forgotten about Sophie’s show, and made a mental note to attend as he connected the Bluetooth to the Jag. “Sounds like your Friday evening is going to be as exciting as mine.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yup. I’m — well, right now, I’m driving actually, hands-free — but I’m in the middle of trying to negotiate a deal for a wind farm, and the lawyers on the other side keep changing the terms of the contract.” 

“A wind farm?” she asked with a laugh. “I thought you all were real estate. Malls and resorts and apartments and hotels like The Bridge.”

“Real estate investment and development. And I’m, uh, looking to set myself up for a promotion this year, and thinking about ways to expand the portfolio a bit more before that.” 

“A promotion … beyond Bridgerton Britain?” She was clearly following his insinuation.  

“Exactly,” he confirmed. “So as part of that, I’m really looking at deepening our portfolio in alternative energy assets. Honestly it’s sort of inspired by El, not that I’d ever tell her.”

“Ah yes, a perfect strategy — steal the ideas of your younger sister and take all the credit.” 

“No, it’s not like that. She is always banging on about the climate or capitalism, or the climate and capitalism. She spends enough time reminding me that I’m part of the problem, but when she’s not being insulting she’s got interesting points.” 

He could hear her head tilt. “You really like all your siblings, don’t you?” 

“I mean, of course,” he said, cocking his own head.

“Tell me about them,” she prompted, voice warm, and he could picture her sitting on some bench with some small dog next to her, huddled in a coat. “Like, as people. I only know Ben, and you talk about them as a single irritating mass.” 

“Well, they’re remarkably good at being that,” he quipped back. 

“You know, I do get the impression that being a pain in the arse is hereditary.” 

“For sure, a trait that only Francesca and I avoided, alas. I’m just simply charming.”  

“Come on ,” she prodded affectionately. He could tell that she was rolling her eyes. “You’re all close, I can tell.” 

“Let me see, ah, well you know Ben. Terrible roommate, great brother, especially with El and the young ones. More forgiving and fun and never has to cut off their allowances. All of that. But he needs to stop partying all weekend, give up the light recreational drugs and maybe think about what life is going to look like in five years.”  

“You could tell him that?”

“Right, and how well do you think that’ll land?”

“True, s’why I don’t bring it up either.” He smiled; he knew she would agree. 

“Colin, he just came back from traveling for like five years, did you know that? He’s Mum’s favorite of the boys, she coddles him a bit. He’s got a job at BG but he’s spotty at attendance. Like I’ve said, can be a bit of a git, but I think he really just needs to figure out where he fits in. Daff and Ben and I, we all know, that’s hard on him. I either want to help him or box him in the ears, sometimes both on the same day.” He paused, recollecting himself. “Daff … I feel like you’ve a good sense of her, honestly. She’s very pragmatic and sensible. She studied ballet, did you know? Boarded from eleven to sixteen before deciding it was too intense. Then, Eloise. She’ll like you. Blazing, smart, passionate, someday soon she’s going to chain herself to some Cabinet Minister’s office, or throw tomato soup at priceless art, and I’m going to have to bail her out and bury the story.” 

“But you’ll buy a wind farm for her.” 

“ Because of her, it’s going to make loads of cash and horrify her. And I will relish that fact.”

“Nice things!” she laughed. 

“Fran …” he tried to get back on track. “She’s got a different temperament than Daff — much quieter, she likes to observe — but she’s the same backbone. She’s very empathetic, the musical one — she did Junior Guildhall growing up. Couldn’t really pick between music and writing plays so she’s doing both right now, composing and stuff like that. And the little ones …. Greg is at Westminster, Mum didn’t want to send him away. Smart but he’s not in a hurry to get anywhere. He’d rather think about girls and video games. Hy’s spunky, loves playing football and rugby, a little too wise, going to be as stubborn and opinionated and driven as the lot of them.” 

She was quiet for a second. “You really really love them,” she finally said. 

He shifted, flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, feeling a little bared. “Well, yeah. You’ve got Edwina.” You get it.  

“Yes,” she said. “Anyways. The dog is getting cold. He’s very small, and older, and demanding. Surely our siblings aren’t why you called?” 

“Ah, right,” he said, pulling into the carpark next to his building. “Well, I actually called to get a second opinion from you. About whether my lawyer is giving me shit advice on this wind farm. But now … I have a proposition for you.” His voice was suggestive and mirthful. He quickly connected back to his headset so he wouldn’t lose the call, and locked the car.  

“Oh?”

“ You have to work. I have to work. I can help you with your work. You can help me with mine. And I have a very nice GlenDronach single malt I haven’t broken into since we invested in them last year. So: study date. My place. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun, huh?”

He grinned. “Exactly.” 

“You do realize I have to write this memo tonight?”  

“It’s an invitation, not a ruse.” He truly meant that: he wasn’t going to coerce her into hanging out with him. 

“Ben’s at his Salon?”

“And Col’s out with the boys.” 

She didn’t respond for so long he honestly wondered if her cell dropped, all the way out there in Beaconsfield. “I can be at your place in about an hour if that works.” 

The grin turned into a beam. “Perfect.”

The two texts came in such quick succession that Sophie could only blink, reading and rereading them each at least five times. 

“Soph? Everything OK?” Kate, looking concerned but cute in a Genevieve Sweeney sweater, skinny Edwin jeans, and the absolutely chicest pair of vintage Chelsea boots, asked as she sipped her chai latte and chipped away at her veggie hash. Sophie finally stared across the tiny table. Brunch at Rapsa was one of her favorite things and now it was ruine d . 

“Ben’s not coming tonight,” she sighed dramatically, “and my father is .” 

Kate — her dear, infuriating, practical, blunt best mate — was quiet for a full ten seconds before saying, “Well, one of those things is very surprising.” 

Sophie deflated, slumping further into the booth. This exhibition was already all kinds of stressful: The Chiaroscuro Effect was the first showing from a new all-female artist collective exploring race, nuance, social activism, and femininity in modern Britain. Each of the five women came from a historically marginalized community that was underrepresented in the British art scene: Amare was Somali and digitally explored the lasting effects of FGM on young girls as a way to work through her own trauma; Fatima was the daughter of two Pakistani immigrants and depicted the Muslim search for identity in modern London; Florence was Roma and looked the deleterious impacts of capitalism as well as the search for home through her camera; Lizzie was Irish Catholic and painted about the trauma of the Troubles; and Queen was Haitian, and used mixed media to express generational sorrows caused by colonialism. It was art that spoke to the moment and was so, so needed right now. 

But need didn’t equal pounds, or the right kinds of attention. All of these women could be in the Tate if given the opportunity, and Sophie was responsible for creating that opportunity. It was the first showing that she alone had put together; her boss was being an arse about pre-sales; RSVPs from key collectors had been frustratingly noncommittal. Both Ben and her father had connections, so she’d invited them, hoping one of them would come. 

And it turned out, the wrong one said yes. 

“I mean, him coming’ll boost turnout.” She blew a curl away from her face as she chose to focus on the less-complicated man. “And he said he’d call the art and fashion critic at the Guardian and good old Queen Char. He’s keen to help. Allegedly.”  

“That is extremely generous of him,” Kate said, a touch sarcastic. “Almost makes up for him missing your fucking college graduation .” 

A laugh broke through, cracking open her ribs and shifting the weight off her heart. “You’re right, that’s entirely forgiven now.” 

“Is your mum coming?” 

“Noooo.” She dragged out the sound. “Off in Nepal at a spiritual retreat.” She was grateful, they always caused Situations.

Kate snorted. “You’d think after dozens of these she would have … found herself.” 

Sophie’s mother, Lalisa, had been born in Bangkok and moved to Paris at eighteen, immediately breaking into the modeling world. She’d stomped all over European fashion centers for five straight seasons, netted thirteen Vogue covers worldwide. At twenty-three, she’d met and fallen in love with Sophie’s father, Nigel. Sixteen years older and already an in-demand agent, he’d always dated the hottest model du jour. Lalisa was no different. 

Except she’d gotten pregnant. Lisa wanted to keep the baby, and Nigel did not. It was one of those facts Sophie had always known , had always had carved into the marrow of her existence: One parent wanted her only as a gambit for love, and the other did not want that love at all. It was an ache that would never go away. And then, Nigel had refused to marry Lisa, spent eighteen years giving only the bare minimum. Lisa, enraged that this decision hadn’t brought the security she craved, sulked and whined through Soph’s childhood. For a while she’d drop in and out of rehab, always claiming one thing or another (exhaustion, depression, alcoholism, sex addiction, cocaine, she really rode that carousel) depositing Sophie at her father’s for ninety days. Since Sophie left for uni, Lisa had switched to spiritual retreats, spending time in South Asia, back home in Thailand, in Costa Rica. 

Nigel, meanwhile, started his own agency and cavorted with the top designers worldwide and judged an American TV show. He eventually married the widow of a rock star when Sophie was twelve; her two daughters had been four and two at the time. They’d recently launched nepotism-model careers, repped by Nigel. Compared to them, Sophie was too tall, too mocha-skinned, too skinny, too “exotic-looking” — always just slightly out of place, always clearly not One Of Them, in the family photos.

Nigel had — fortunately or unfortunately — mellowed a bit as he approached seventy. Had purchased her industrial Shoreditch loft, got lunch once a month, helped her with the job market, gave her an allowance as she got established. Things were better. But she couldn’t be grateful, not after her childhood. The metallic taste of abandonment couldn’t be washed away. 

Especially because he’d never, not once, apologized. 

“Yeah, I’m sure this’ll be the time.” Sophie sighed.

“And why isn’t Ben coming?” 

“I mean, he never RSVPed yes … though you know, this morning Anthony did, so I figured, maybe.” 

“Oh,” Kate said, and the single word had about six different layers. 

“Kathani Sharma , you minx,” she exclaimed, and dear lord, Katie actually blushed . “Did you sleep with him again?” 

“Again?!” Her jaw dropped in mock — though perhaps not entirely — outrage. “Who says I’ve slept with him?” 

“Um…” She traced the intelligence backwards. “Colin told Eloise who told Ben. Who was extremely amused.”  

“This family is a nightmare,” Kate muttered.

“ You are evading. ” Sophie countered with glee. 

“We … Both had work to do last night. It was easier to do together.” Kate started scratching under her eye, fidgeting with her hair, tugging the sleeves of her sweater — all signs that she was feeling on the spot. Sophie had always wondered if those tics were present in the courtroom, if she got nervous questioning military officials who had ordered children murdered. She doubted it. 

But teasing Kate was fun. “And when did you leave that working group?” 

Kate sighed, then stared straight at Sophie. “An hour and forty-five minutes ago.” 

“Surly Anthony! And Snarky Kate! I love this so much.” What a wonderful mood booster this news was. She’d have to tell Ben. 

“It’s nothing but some fun; now, let’s focus on you and your Bridgerton. What’s Ben’s excuse? Work?”

“Sort of. Says he didn’t get home till seven AM after his salon—” Ben threw all-night parties nearly every Friday at his studio, a chance for artists to create and mingle and drink and occasionally do much more licentious activities, “—and he’s just too tired. Early flight tomorrow for a shoot in Istanbul. Blah blah blah.” 

“Well, he’s not lying about the time he got home,” Kate confirmed, and Sophie grinned. She would have loved to see Ben’s reaction to a tousled, grumpy Morning Kate in Anthony’s ugly kitchen. “But … Soph, you guys … you don’t do labels. You both see other people—”

“I haven’t. Not for … gosh, not for nine months, I think. Whereas he—”

“—Is still abiding by the ground rules he agreed to,” Kate cut in. She could hear the unspoken question: What’s changed? 

She wasn’t sure, honestly. It was her career settling in, her professional desires clarifying, the conviction that she knew things and had a value in the world to work on and toward. It was feeling like she had more ways to enjoy herself than just a party where the crowds could convince her she was in the right place, doing the right thing, having the right amount of fun. It was weddings and dinners suddenly turning into coupled, rather than group, affairs.  

Sophie had always been defined by her relationship to someone else and the drama and disappointment they brought. There had never been room to stake out her own boundaries, or to plan far in advance because she never knew what might fall apart next. 

Yet somehow over the last year, she’d settled into herself. A whole, defined, flawed person, who could give herself grace and space with her family, who was a competent friend and professional. A person who wanted someone else to be there for them. A person who looked ahead and wondered if she could, maybe, define what her life would be.

And Ben, over the past ten years, had worked perfectly, never disappointed her. And yet now he was, suddenly, all the time. 

She knew people only disappointed you because you let them, because you brought certain expectations and hopes. She had realized that she wanted more and she wanted him, and she didn’t know how to reconcile the two. 

“It’s just a big night for me,” she finally said. “And our rules about sex aside, he’s one of my best friends. And he does so well, it would be good for the artists if he were there. That’s all there is.” 

“Well, I’m not sure it’ll make up for it, but one of your other best friends would love to get ready with you and see what fucking killer outfit you’re wearing.” 

She brightened, momentarily feeling more herself. “A fantastic Maximilian cocktail dress, and that sounds lovely. I have the cutest Prabal Gurung you’re going to borrow, you’ll love it.” 

Kate smiled. “Cannot wait.”

Anthony had never been to Sophie’s gallery, but it was pretty much what he would expect after a decade of going to Ben’s shows: tall brick and sparse white walls; high ceilings with exposed ductwork and great lighting; a loud DJ in the corner; bowls of cigarettes on high tables. Sophie had drawn a throbby crowd and he vaguely recognized art- and fashion-world people he’d met through Ben. It was noisy, and a little rowdy, and he felt a touch square in his Savile Row suit and tie. 

Daff should be around, Kate was definitely supposed to be there, there were at least two women from his Moderately Eligible list attending — but it was Sophie, incandescent in a red cocktail dress and head and shoulders above everyone else, that he saw first.

“Ant!” she exclaimed, giving him two cheek kisses. “Thank you for coming. You look so cute.” 

“Not, uh, the look that I was going for,” he responded.

“Your outfit is … here. Do you mind if I borrow that?” she asked the woman next to her, pointing at the kerchief knotted to her bag. A little surprised, the woman nodded, and Sophie quickly folded it and deposited it into his breast pocket. “There. That looks better.” 

“Uh, thanks?” he smiled. Should he give it back to her at the end of the night? “Have you seen any of my siblings, Camille Dubois Dupont, or Helen Goring?” He reckoned he better start with the Moderately Eligible and get that out of the way. 

“What about Prudence Featherington? Is she on your list yet?” Sophie’s eyes sparkled, and Anthony knew that his plan had been shared with his brother’s … person.

“Absolutely not,” he smiled. “Any sense of locations, please?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Helen Goring is by the installation in the back, Camille was at the champagne fountain last I saw. And Daphne and Simon are here, talking to Kate,” she smiled. “In case you’d like to say hi.” 

“I appreciate the intelligence. And brilliant job on this show, pick something out for me to buy.” 

She blinked. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“Nonsense. All my apartment’s art is Ben’s doing. And I have no idea if I like it.” And with that, he was off to find Helen Goring. 

A quick conversation on the agony of Los Angeles Fashion Week later, he had set a date for the following evening. Camille — whose father was a very questionable French businessman and whose mother was a descendent of a cousin of Louis the Something’s — was located next. They briefly discussed the riveting politics of her third-grade classroom (she taught at the French International School), and agreed to meet at Annabel’s for dancing on Wednesday. 

Business out of the way, he was finally free to find Kate and bother her. “Ant!” Daff called, standing next to an oversized close-up of a single tear streaming down a woman’s face. And next to her —

“Your hair is curly,” he informed Kate, thrilled to have solved that mystery. It was fucking gorgeous, and her dress was some amazing thing too, with cutouts and graphic flowers. 

“Hello, Anthony,” she smirked, though with a bit of an eyeroll. 

“Hi.” He smiled back. “Your hair. It’s curly.” 

She looked at him like he was quite simple. “Yes, there’s this thing called a hair straightener. Wand it through my hair most days so I don’t get complaints at work.” 

“It looks fantastic, who would complain?” Seriously, she looked fucking amazing. 

She blinked, amused, as he stepped closer. “Oh, I don’t know, just the universe of old white men in wigs. The literal old guard.” 

“They’re just jealous cause their musty curls don’t smell as nice as yours,” he teased, tugging one gently. “It’s nice … it looks nice.” 

“It really does,” Simon said, voice syrupy, from beside him. Fuck, he’d forgotten about him and Daff.

Daphne tilted her head. “Nice of you to swing by, brother. Kate was just filling us in about your early-morning activities.” 

“Rowing,” Kate shot in too quickly, causing Simon to choke on his drink. Daff smiled proudly at her innuendo. “I, uh, mentioned we both were regulars at Kensington.”  

“Ah,” Anthony replied, doing some quick strategizing: Daff was too proper to call him out directly; Si, not in front of Daff. So whatever they knew, they wouldn’t admit to knowing, and therefore he had the upper hand. He stepped to the side of Kate, a little more socially acceptable, but still close. “Yes, Kate’s been a great early-morning activity partner. Her grip and swing of her stroke are excellent. I obviously have a longer draw, but that’s not unsurprising — male physiology and all. But well matched in enthusiasm and endurance, I would say, yes Kate?” 

With remarkable ease, she picked up the joke. “Certainly always a vigorous match up,” she responded, nodding with carefully polite blankness. “Some mornings can get rough, but luckily Anthony is skilled at handling his equipment.” 

Daff pursed her lips and blinked once before nodding. “They’re not very fun to tease,” she informed Si, as if Ant and Kate weren’t there. 

“No, they’re both wankers,” he agreed. The two couples stood across from each other, assessing. 

“Well, she started it,” Ant said, slightly petulant. 

“Bridgerton!” a voice said from behind him.

He whirled, catching the small of Kate’s back as he spun. “Dorset.” He smiled at his former Eton and Oxford chum. “Good to see you back from Haiti. How’ve you been?” 

“Slowly adjusting to the weather, but otherwise can’t complain. Bassett.” He nodded.

“Mate,” Simon said with a polite smile. “You remember Daphne, my fiance.” Daff waved at the man gently.

“And this is a family friend, Kate Sharma. Kate, this is Thomas Dorset, who went to school with us and hangs around London when he’s not doctor-ing around the world.” Dorset’s family wasn’t quite at their level of posh, but he was a decent enough bloke, though sometimes somewhat awkward and a bit smarmy, in Anthony’s opinion — he didn’t quite trust him. He always seemed to be raising funds for or doing a medical mission, going to some impoverished tropical country to do cleft-palate surgery and posting about it on his social media. 

“Sharma?” Dorset smiled, “you wouldn’t happen to be related to Dr. Nikhil Sharma, would you?”

“Yes, he’s my father,” she exclaimed, a bright, genuine smile positively bursting across her face.

“I did my internship on his service at Royal Brompton. I actually remember your photos — you have a sister, yeah?” 

“I do! Edwina.” She was clearly charmed, which was annoying.. 

“Was so sorry to hear about his illness. He was a great man.” 

Anthony watched Kate’s fingers tighten imperceptibly around her wine glass, her entire body go still. He stroked a single finger on her low back. “He still is, actually.” 

“Kate’s a solicitor,” Daphne cut in, as Dorset gaped for words. “Quite a busy one.” 

A quick and polite exchange about jobs later (they had them), Dorset disappeared to watch some digital video, and the night seemed to take off in a busy way: Sophie grabbed his hand to get his opinion on two pieces, both of which cost more money than he expected. El and Col, accompanied by Penelope, dropped in before heading off to Mondrich’s pop-up of the month: Ziggy’s, a Starman- themed affair that sounded fantastic, and was probably lost on his siblings. Nick and Bex popped in to say hello to Sophie, and the photog from Time Out got a snap of the three of them that Ant knew would help Sophie’s sales. It was the first outing since the December birth of the couple’s  daughter, Princess Georgina, and Sophie’s taste in art was edgier than the Royals typically patronized, so the photos would be a very big deal. Ant and Simon spent a good forty-five minutes catching up with Nick and looking at iPhone photos of the future Queen of England, who resembled, as far as Ant could tell, her 102-year-old great-great-grandmother. 

Through all of Nick’s bragging about his abilities to get his baby to sleep, he watched Kate out of the corner of his eye: Taking on the crowds with Edwina (Freddie would never attend a gallery opening), charming Sophie’s art set, talking with Daff and Bex. He didn’t quite register he was doing it; she was simply a magnet, drawing his eyes into orbit, trying to figure out if she was shaken from Dorset’s careless comment. 

After the Duke and Duchess of Clarence slipped out the back exit, Daff sidled up to Simon and said, “Give Ant and me a minute, love? Fetch another glass of champagne from the fountain, perhaps.” With a kiss to her forehead, Simon slipped into the crowd.

She turned to him. “So. Kate,” Daff started, taking a deep breath. “She’s lovely.” 

He tensed. “Daff —”

“Before you — I just think she’s lovely. We quite like her, truly. And —” 

“Nothing good can come after that and .” 

“And —” she smiled apologetically — “I feel that Col and Ben and I may owe you an apology. Or at least a head’s up.” 

He smirked. “I’ll take an apology from you lot any day of the week.”

She rolled her eyes. “This is me being nice , Ant.” 

“Go on, then.” 

“At Alchemy, before Black Book … we were all discussing your breakup with Siena. I know —” she held up a hand — “it was a little indiscreet. And fine, catty. Anyways, your little … declaration about your desire to find a wife came up.” 

He scowled, feeling his collar tighten as his neck flooded with heat. “Is anything in this family, well, private ? Do you all remember what it was like, when Father died? Paparazzi in bushes and all that noise? How are you all possibly so bloody cavalier all the time.” 

“Well first of all , this was mostly Col and Ben. And I’m sorry , alright? How were we supposed to know we happened to be talking to the girl you’d flirted with over, of all fucking things, pre-dawn rowing ?” 

“It didn’t matter who you were talking to — it mattered that you were talking . You do not take things seriously, Daff, none of you do. And that’s a problem.”  

“We made a mistake. And I’m saying sorry. Truly.” She fixed him with a glare. “But what I am trying to say, without you jumping down my throat — is simply that I felt you were owed this information. Kate is clearly capable of taking care of herself, but given your history and your goals, I would not want there to be any misunderstandings.” 

“My history? My goals?” he asked, annoyed.

“You say you want to get married, you have not dated anyone seriously in, well, ever … and you’ve described your ideal match as someone who will support you in your duties. Kate doesn’t seem the sort to merely support , and I saw you speaking with Camille and Helen earlier. Who do seem the type. But you clearly enjoy spending time with Kate, and are attracted to her —” Daff raised her arms in surrender, as if removing herself from the problem — “and I don’t want her to get hurt, or for you not to get what you desire.” 

He swallowed, still a little in disbelief. He felt a prick of judgment — his life, since their father died, had solely revolved around their family. For them to throw that back at him, at the moment he was ascending to the pinnacle of the family company, felt rich. “Kate and I are adults. We are enjoying each other. Nobody is taking advantage of the other. And nobody is proposing marriage. It is none of your business. Is that clear?” 

Daff looked like the matter was very much not clear, but she finally said, “Crystal.” 

Simon came back then, and Edwina joined them; a few minutes later Kate settled sideways at his shoulder, leaning her elbow against him familiarly. “Having fun?” she asked, voice light.

“Not particularly,” he admitted, turning so his nose was in her hair. 

“You want to?” she asked, an eyebrow raising.

“Gladly.” 

They headed back to his place, her voice throaty with laughter as she argued with him about his careful interpretation of traffic laws. “I’m a solicitor, I know these things,” she insisted when he did not run a red light.

“You are clearly a menace who drives like an American,” he countered, before leaning over to kiss her, mostly because he wanted to. Her mouth was liquid, and warm, and familiar. He could get lost in it. 

“Mmmph — green light,” she murmured, five seconds or five minutes later. “Like I said, you’re a terribly distracted driver.” 

“Says the distraction.” 

It was a quieter entrance to his apartment; the two of them murmuring as they lazily kissed in the elevators. She kicked off her shoes as soon as she stepped in, shook her hair out of her coat, which she hung in the closet. He came from behind, wrapped his arms around her waist, pushed those glorious curls aside to kiss under her ears. She minded less than on Tuesday. 

Yesterday, as she’d helped him come up with three potential strategies around the wind farm, they’d fucked in the living room — on the couch, then with her on her knees and resting her forearms on the ottoman, then against the glass window, before heading to bed. Tonight, though, they both seemed a little more subdued. 

“Can I get you anything? Tea?” 

She shook her head. “You don’t have the right kind.” 

He brightened. “I don’t think that’s true!” He went into the kitchen, rummaged around in the tea and coffee cabinet. His housekeeper did the weekly shop on Friday, and he’d forgotten to show Kate the haul yesterday. “Isn’t this it?” he pulled out a bright orange tin, letters in four foreign languages — Marathi, Urdu, Tamil, and Hindi, he thought, he’d Googled; in addition to English —  scrawled over a picture of cardamom pods.

Her eyes widened. “How?” 

“I took a photo in that cafe Tuesday after you insisted I buy your groceries. Texted it to my house manager. She takes things from there.” 

She walked over, and leaned up to kiss him gently before taking the tin. “Tea would be lovely. But you don’t know how to prepare it.”  

“Well, Counselor,” he said with a slight leer, “I am open to watching.” 

She tossed her purse on the counter as he pulled out the equipment, mostly in silence, through she immediately shook her head and went searching for a saucepan as well. He watched her prepare the simmer the loose tea and search for his spice cabinet and add milk, forearms leaning against the counter the entire time. It felt … intimate, and Daff’s warning rang in his ears.

She poured him a cup — “you helped, sort of, after all” — and he did have to admit it was better than black tea, smoother and richer and less abrupt in taste. She started to wash the dishes but he took over, wrapping his body around hers and planting teasing kisses at her neck and collarbone. Their hands danced over each other, and soon enough she’d turned around, soapy hands grasping his cheeks and her kisses becoming more insistent as he hoisted her onto the island, dishes forgotten as he went down on her. 

What he’d liked about Kate since the first time he slept with her was her confidence, her playfulness, the laughter. There was still plenty of that, but when they finally made it to his bedroom — it was more intense, longer and deeper. He kneeled behind her on the bed, chest against back, to fuck her from behind; she arched her spine and scrabbled her hands through his ear, grabbing his neck to keep his mouth close on hers. He was pretty sure she left a three-inch long scratch along his neck. They laid sideways and he lifted her leg over his hip, taking her deep and slow. They ended with her on top and elbows bracketing him, eye-to-eye as she rode him, the curtain of hair surrounding him with her scent. Afterwards, it was the first time he fell asleep sure she’d be there when he woke up. 

And she was, turned toward him with her head pillowed on her arm, the other hand keeping the sheet in place. Eyes wide and unreadable as she stared at him. “Morning,” he mumbled sleepily, pulling her toward him.

She let him kiss her, but it felt different, and finally she said, “We need to talk.” 

“Sure,” he said, because he would have agreed to anything right now. “What time is it?” 

“Like, seven. Today is your brunch command performance, yeah?” 

“Don’t have to be there until ten.” Then, he remembered Daff’s words, again. “Just so you know … it’s totally family-only. Simon barely counts. We had to have a vote.” 

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Why on earth would I want to go and spend the morning with your entire family?” 

“Very true,” he quipped. “I suppose even I don’t want to.” 

She sat up, rummaged through his shirts until she found one from a polo competition he’d done several years ago, then sat back down. “I know I said a one-time thing, and I meant that. And now, it’s a three-time thing in a week. One’s an accident, two’s a coincidence, three’s a habit, all that. And I do want to be clear … Col and Ben, on Tuesday before you showed up —” 

He raised a hand. “Daff told me. I got a bit gruff with her, actually. They shouldn’t have been talking like that.” 

“I’m glad they did,” she said, her eyes straight. “Anthony, I don’t want to date you. I don’t want a relationship at all; I don’t … do relationships, really. I’m independent and I like that; I’m not planning on settling down. Kids aren’t on my radar. And you are looking for marriage. So.” She spread her hands, as if to say, the logic demands it.

He sat up, sheet falling to his waist. “Kate Sharma,” he said, very very seriously. “I do not want to marry you.” 

Her mouth dropped, surprised and a little outraged and definitely unclear how she should react. “Well, that’s a little offensive. I’m a catch!” 

“That — was not how I intended it to land. You are clearly a catch, I have caught you three times this week alone.” She made a noise, still a little pissed. “Here, hand me those boxers, would you? This isn’t a naked conversation.” She threw them, purposefully pretty hard, at his face. 

“Listen,” he said, when he was more suitably clothed. “I — yes, I want to get married. But, Kate — you have to understand, much of my life, it’s a role. I am the seventeenth Viscount Bridgerton. Like all sixteen before me, I have a family to manage, and mine is seven siblings and a meddlesome mother. There are obligations, parties, sponsorships — things that seem silly but are very, very important to my family. And, because I am the viscount — I do not even have a choice about whether I have children. They are expected. There is attention, and gossip, and photos when you are just trying to bury your father.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes. And when you try and go to a club with friends, or on a vacation — they’re horrific. When Nick met Bex, she was a middle-class girl at Pembrooke, and perfectly lovely. They dated in that bubble for two years. They graduate and move to London, and she’s in the press, she’s followed everywhere, they go through her trash for tampons, she has no idea. It’s madness, and she had to choose to live in this gilded cage, like a zoo monkey, for the rest of her life.” 

“You are hardly the second in line to the throne, Anthony. And, I spoke with her last night — they seem happy.” 

“No, I am not, but she had to exchange a fair amount of freedom and choice to marry him. It was a sacrifice. One she made, eyes open. She can’t have a career. Last year, she wanted to adopt a center for LGBT homeless kids as a patronage and the Palace said no. Too edgy.” 

“Again, she is the future queen of the United Kingdom.” 

“Yes, but there is still plenty of Society needed in my line. And,” here he struggled for words, “in part, I should think, because of these expectations — Bridgerton Group is my life. It is my family’s livelihood, of course. But there, working, I have value. It is not tied to the accident of my place in the birth order. I have earned my place. I am an excellent leader and businessman. It keeps me sane. So I work, all the time — sixty to seventy hours a week. I travel. None of those are changing. I will be the president and CEO of the Bridgerton Group by Christmas.” 

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.” 

“Yes. So on the one hand — must do society functions, raise children, be a hostess, fit in that cage that Queen Char has dictated agreeable. And on the other hand — I know I will be a husband who is not around, who misses family dinner, who misses the soccer game.”

He thought of all the reasons women had broken up with him in the past; between the family and the role in Society, of all the things that sounded smart and glamorous until they weren’t. He was keenly, keenly aware of how dry this life could be; of how many responsibilities he had to fulfill. There were already so many people in his life that he let down simply by not being his dead father. He must marry; he did not need to add a wife to that list of disappointed people. 

She frowned, momentarily distracted. “Well, you’re selling yourself short there. Daphne said you made Gregory’s football game just this week, and you go to this brunch weekly.” 

He shook his head. “I plan to increase my travel schedule with the promotion. Bridgerton Europe, Bridgerton Asia, we’re expanding into Africa.”

“You do know that, in modern times, you’re supposed to be in love with the person you marry. Not signing yourself up for unhappiness.” 

“I’m not signing myself up. It is what my life is, and I accepted it long ago.” The day his father died, honestly. She raised an eyebrow, clearly in disbelief. “Luckily, that is a particular type of woman who would enjoy that cage, and I know that. And you — Kate, you’re extraordinary.” His throat felt surprisingly rough. “You’re bloody brilliant, you make the world a better place, and you’re funny and kind and you have fucking fantastic legs and tits. You hold your own in so many more important worlds than this one. I am — clearly, I am in awe of you. You would hate this life. And so no, I cannot marry you.” 

She nodded, flexing her hands as if searching for something to grab onto. “Well, this is extremely weird, but I do appreciate the honesty.” And with that, she began to gather her clothes. “And I’m glad we’re on the same page.” 

“Wait, are you leaving?” 

She looked at him as if he was insane. “Yes. You just told me you were in the market for what sounds like the world’s most saintly bride for the world’s most pitiful marriage. So I’m gonna go, and live my life, and probably have one too many mimosas with Edwina as we break down this very surreal conversation.” 

“I don’t understand. He shook his head, a bit stubborn. She was the one being insane. “I am single, until I find this woman. You do not want a relationship. The sex is fantastic, and I’m going to see you Monday at 5 AM on the Thames. We are on the same page, but I think a different one than you suppose.” 

“You want to … keep having sex?” She itched her finger along the back of her neck, processing and considering. 

He stood, began to walk toward her, to crowd into her space. “Why not? We both don’t want strings. You have priorities you need to attend to, as do I. You can be assured that you will not have a relationship. I am clear that I cannot marry you. No misunderstandings, no miscommunications.” His eyes lowered, and he touched her elbow. “We’re friends, right?” 

Her posture melted, just a bit. “I … Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then we both know.” He scratched under her elbow, just a bit. “Kate. We can do this.” 

She sighed, stepping out of his embrace. paced a bit. “Ground rules.” A contract negotiation. Perfect. He straightened, ready for her terms. “I will never be anybody’s mistress. So as soon as you find this poor girl and make your decision, you let me know first. And this ends.” 

“Acceptable.” 

“None of that ‘you up’ text message nonsense. We’re not twenty-two, or Sophie and Ben.”

“We have more dignity, agreed. Do you want … dinners, beforehand?” 

She made a face. “Ew. Don’t make this sound transactional. If we want to hang out, we hang out. If we want to have sex when we’re hanging out, we do that. Friends, right?”

“Yes. And, dating?” He crossed his arms, trying to figure out his own position  

“We are both free to date other people, and to bring them to things where the other may be. If that is the case, we should not go home with each other. That’s bad manners.” 

“Agreed. I’m a gentleman.”

”And we are both, of course, free to bail if this is no longer working. Family, another person, one of us grows a weird mole.” 

“Yes. Entirely at-will. If we don’t have dates to functions, are we allowed to be each other’s date?” 

She twisted her mouth, considering. “I don’t think it’s wise to make rules there. Case by case.” 

“Money when we’re out together?” 

“Oh, you’re the posh one. I will occasionally treat you to curries from a vendor.” 

“I really like falafel, as well,” he joked, and she glowered. “Alright, any other rules?” 

He watched her run through them mentally, and then she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.” 

“Great.” He tugged her toward him, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. She pushed into him, slid her hands down his abs. “How do we seal this contract, then?” With a waggle of his eyebrows, he jokingly put his pinky finger between them, which she ignored. 

Instead she kissed him as her signature. 

Chapter Text

I did not see it. But then I seem to have been doomed to blindness. — Emma

“Pawn to C5,” Appa announced, hovering his hand above the board. He reached carefully for the pawn, but his hand knocked three pieces over instead. “Offo,” he muttered as they scattered, and Kate gently reset them. 

“You know, Appa, I’m happy to move the pieces for you,” she offered brightly. It had been ten years, and she’d gotten used to it in the day-to-day, but it was still hard for her to see her father’s hands gnarled with tremors when they played chess. He’d taught her on this very board, when she was so small she needed to stand on the chair to move her pieces.

“Or I can,” Edwina called from the couch, where she was reading a candy-colored paperback. “After all, I’m playing Kate next, and it might be nice to beat her twice.” 

“You wish, bon,” Kate replied, voice challenging. 

“Girls, chess is a peaceful game.” He waved them away. “It may take me a bit longer, but I am still capable. I appreciate your patience. Kathani, your turn.” 

It was only their third Friday of this new tradition, but already Kate liked it quite a bit: Driving out with Edwina to the cozy, five-bedroom Edwardian cottage in Beaconsfield, eating a curry prepared by Mum, sharing about their week and unwinding with chess or cricket or just hearing about the latest drama at the village primary school, where Mum had been the headmistress before retiring, but now volunteered. It was cooler to be seen at Will Mondrich’s pop-up bar, but after six years barely seeing her mum or Edwina, there was no place she’d rather be. 

Eager to check out how her potential opponents were doing — it really was no surprise that their chess-mad father had raised a successful solicitor and a tennis champion — Edwina abandoned the couch to come stand by the board, setting her book on the table as she did so. “What’s the book, bon?” Kate asked. Edwina was a total bookworm, usually reading the most thought-provoking new novel of the day, but this time she blushed.

“Red, White, and Royal Blue," she finally said. “It’s about an American First Son who falls for the third in line to our throne. Funny but lots of plot holes, honestly.” 

“Ah. Fascinating. Tell me more about the plot holes when it comes to dating a junior prince.” Kate’s voice was smug and teasing and Edwina cut her a cross look; this was not a conversation to have in front of their father.

“I wish I could tell you! You’re at the office so late every single night this week I feel like you’re never home.”

Check, Edwina. Kate turned back to the board. “Knight to G3.” 

“Appa, where are you going to move? Let me help you,” Edwina said.

“Bah! I said, well in hand, Edwina.” He carefully lifted a second pawn to E6. This was going to be a tough game. 

“Whew. So stubborn, old man,” Edwina clucked under her breath. 

“How was practice today, bon? Are you feeling confident about Miami?” Kate asked, running a finger over the bishop. 

Edwina’s face turned serious. “Yes, we’ve worked on many grounding exercises. And it’s good that we’re starting back up with a small tournament. But … Monte Carlo and Madrid and Italy, all so soon. Last year, I didn’t even qualify for those tournaments.” 

Appa reached out a shaky hand to pat Edwina’s. “But this year, you did.” 

It was a valuable reminder. In addition to navigating newfound fame and fortune, Edwina had what her sports psychologist called ‘the yips’: She panicked and her game mentally came apart at the slightest error now. And it was much, much worse than any of them had let on. 

As soon as Eddie made one tiny mistake in a game, she was suddenly no longer in the game: she was reading the headlines, catastrophizing about injuries, doubting whether she was good or just lucky. She had panic attacks before, after, during matches. She felt unprepared, unready, undeserving. She had covered it at the US Open by claiming a hamstring pull — physical injuries were acceptable; mental struggles were verboten — and then saying that the injury was too persistent to even risk Australia. Edwina had always relished attention, and she was too anxious, some days, to go out in public. But now, as the one-year anniversary of her win at Wimbledon loomed, as press and public interest crested again — she simply had to start playing again. From her perspective, she had to play w ell .

Which only made it harder. 

“How did you keep so calm, with someone’s literal heart in your hands?” Edwina asked, smiling even as she wiped at a tear. “When I cannot with a racket in mine. It’s so silly.” 

“It’s not silly, bon, it’s your passion as well as your job.” 

“And you! Fearlessly staring down murderers.” 

“Edwina, do not sell yourself short. That is your first mistake. I simply focused on the task at hand. First, the move in front of you. Then, the next move. One at a time. It is like chess, eh.” 

“Appa, you say everything is like chess.” 

“That is because —” he carefully waved his bishop around — “it is…” 

“— The game of life,” his daughters chorused. 

“Ah, you do listen.” 

Mum’s shadow crept into the doorway, and Kate looked up to the tired smile of her stepmother. Mary Sharifov had been Kate’s kindergarten teacher the year after Amma died, and Kate claimed that Mary fell for her, first. She’d come to England from Azerbaijan as an au pair after the Wall fell, intended to stay in their tiny village for only a year before getting a job as a teaching assistant and then earning a degree. She was exactly what a stepmother should be, made a broken family a new kind of whole. “Only when it suits them,” she joked to her husband. She looked at Kate, tapping a folder in her hands. “Kate. May Newton and I steal you?” 

“Now? I am in the middle of trouncing Appa.” 

“No you’re not,” Edwina said. “Look, three moves and he’ll have your queen.” She traced the potential path with her finger.

“I would rather lose than forfeit!” Kate exclaimed. “When did you get so good?” 

“When you moved to New York for six years and I became Appa’s star pupil.” She preened. 

“I think I can get her in two,” Appa replied. 

He was, unfortunately, right, and Kate ceded her chair to Edwina before following Mum and Newton out to the gardens. They had always been Kate’s favorite part of their home; there was peace in the overgrown rhododendrons. 

“Appa and I visited Dr. Shah this week,” Mum started, after they’d settled on a bench near the tennis court  and Kate had fussed appropriately with the obese corgi. She put the thin manila folder onto her lap. “I wanted to walk you through what we talked about, all those words flying around and you know he and your father just used jargon and Hindi.” Mum sounded a little overwhelmed.  

“Good, he’s really good,” Kate said encouragingly. “I read a paper of his this week, looking at the metabolic effects of increased —”

“— He’s very good,” Mum raised a hand. “Very kind.”    

“I assume we’re revisiting the levodopa dosage —” 

“Um, yes, are,” Mum confirmed, rifling through notes. “There is a new ultrasound treatment we’ll do, as well.”  

Kate frowned. “Are we sure that’s better than deep-brain stimulation?” 

“Dr. Shah thinks it’s prudent for now. We can revisit, if you think so?” 

Since the diagnosis more than a decade ago, the three of them had been on a bumbling, linked-arms medical journey. Appa had the perspective on medicine, Mum managed transportation and appointment booking, but even at uni, Kate had assumed the care management, bills and family finances, and advocacy—she was simply louder, surer, more emphatic. She had found the Columbia trial, and moved to New York so he could participate. He stayed with her, Monday through Thursday, every other week that she had been in New York. The treatments and therapies she found had worked for many years, enabling him still to consult on cases during the weeks he was in London.  

“Yes. It’s getting good results in a trial in Calgary,” she said. Apps used to follow the science, but he was remarkably less interested these days, and it was up to Kate to stay current on the research. “I’d like to come to the next appointment.” 

“You are more than welcome to,” Mum said, gently. “Kate — your father asked me to have this conversation with you. A key factor of the treatments that we’re looking at is palliative care.” 

“Palliative?” 

“Yes. The PD is rapidly reaching Stage 4. Soon, Consuela’s part-time support won’t be enough. Dr. Shah recommended that we consider a nursing home.”

“A nursing home is absurd. Absolutely not. I can move in.” 

“Darling, be rational.” 

“My aunt moved in with my grandparents when Daada got ill, it is the same thing.” This really was one of those things that she was positive Mum simply could not get, having not been raised as the daughter of an Indian immigrant, having never lost a parent, having never spent her summers swimming in a culture and country entirely not her own. Mum’s parents had cashed in on capitalism when it came to Budapest, retired to Portugal, and barely called. 

Kate wouldn’t fight Mum tonight but it would not come to this. 

“Oh honey,” Mary hemmed. “I don’t think that’s wise. Are you sure? Your father left Delhi because he didn’t want that to be the option.”

”Absolutely. Though some of these new treatments should slow the decline. Dr. Shah needs to be current.”

“Well. We could discuss, I suppose.” She sounded doubtful. “I just don’t know if your father would like that.” She tucked a curl out of Kate’s face, and reached over to hug Kate to her side. “There’s no reason to make any decisions now. But we will need to make decisions soon.”

Kate nodded. She didn’t need time to make them.

They didn’t stay very late. Edwina had insisted on driving; like Anthony, she felt that Kate had ‘too American’ an understanding of road and traffic behavior. “I just like to get places in a reasonable amount of time,” she had retorted when Edwina refused to give her a copy of the Audi’s keys.

“Didi?” Edwina asked as she took the ramp to the A5.

“Yes, bon?” Kate looked up from where she’d been texting Anthony a not tonight, I need to drive E to the airport super early. Brunch?

“Have you … given any more thought to the genetic test?” Edwina’s voice was deceptively mild.   

She sighed. This again. “No, bon.” It had been the one suggestion from the Columbia doctors she had not followed. “I’m not a professional athlete. It’s not necessary.” 

“Still. The peace of mind.”

“From knowing that I’ll inherit a neurological condition?” she snorted. With good treatment, Appa was likely to live a long life, but a deeply impacted one; were she to inherit, she had, max, twenty more years. “No, thank you, I do not need that in my life,” she insisted.

“Or that you won’t,” Edwina said, studiously looking at the road. 

“I don’t want that knowledge to control my life.” 

“Of course,” Edwina agreed. She paused, still not making eye contact. “But can’t the uncertainty do the same?”  

“Not if you don’t let it,” Kate challenged, tone turning abrasive. “Knowing that bad things are coming won’t stop bad things from happening. Amma got in a car and went to the grocery store and got killed by a drunk driver at 9 in the morning. You can’t let fear drive you.” It made her voice raw, to talk about Amma. At her sister’s horrified look, she shifted and took a deep breath. She’d gone too far. Bulldozed her sweet sister with both analysis and the force of her feelings on the topic. “OK, sorry. How is Prince Freddie? Tell me about the novel’s plot holes.” 

Edwina relaxed. “It was a wonderful two weeks of fun! I told him thank you and that he could shag me again if I won Wimbledon.” 

“It’s over?” she asked, shocked. She’d been ready to chase him out of Madrid.

“Of course it is. I’m going on the Tour through September, at least. It would have been a distraction. I thought you agreed?” 

“I — yes. Of course.” 

“What about you and Lord Anthony?” Edwina’s voice was chatty and suggestive. “I don’t think I’ve seen you more than two nights this week.” 

She smiled, deflected the jibe. “You’re seeing me tonight.” 

“And?” 

“Still all fun, no distractions here, too.” Kate assured her sister, who looked skeptical. 

Edwina focused on the road for several seconds before she blurted out, “You wouldn’t get tested, even if you wanted kids ?” 

She sighed, feeling very old, and prickly, and tired. The responsibilities of her family were closer and heavier than usual today; the choices and conflicting needs more personal; the fragility aching more deeply. The darkness more tempting. She thought briefly of Anthony’s tantrum from last week, his miserable fit about how he had no choices, and shuddered. She was glad that was not her lot; she’d made her choices, long ago, and she would be sticking to them. “I suppose in that unlikely scenario, perhaps, I would want to know the information.” She would never want to set up a child to have to be in her shoes, but she also didn’t picture children because she’d been wearing those shoes for eight years. She gladly cared for her family, and they were plenty enough to care for. “Luckily, not something I’m considering right now. Now, let’s visualize, hmm?”

Penelope sat at her desk, scrolling slowly through the weekend’s DMs, photos, and emails. Next to her, a half-moon of grapefruit and a piece of gluten-free avocado toast sat neatly on a plate, a cup of strong breakfast tea beside it. 

“Let’s see, let’s see,” she whispered, scanning the empty offices of Fox, Bancroft, the publishing house where she’d worked for nine months, to make sure she was alone. She had always pictured publishing as something glamorous, a job where she’d become interesting simply by virtue of being surrounded by interesting people. Instead she often felt as invisible here as she did anywhere else. She fetched cuppas and held doors and printed meeting agendas. Occasionally, her boss called her Sarah. She wasn’t sure why. 

So for her twenty-fourth birthday — after Eloise forgot to bring a cake to the party, and Colin bailed to hang out with Freddie, and her sisters got into a fight, and her mother yelled at Pen for crying when all this went to hell in the middle of Apricity— she’d decided to be interesting. Nobody wanted to be the best friend in their own life, as the trope went. 

She had joined all the dating apps, no longer willing to wait around to be asked. She went on two dates a week, whether or not the boy on the other side of the phone looked particularly attractive. She cut stress-eating from her daily routine, and paid thirty-five pounds, four times a week, for the privilege of a spin instructor named Sven torturing her into taking better care of herself. She dropped a minor fortune on LK Bennett, Kate Spade, and Beulah. To meet people, Fran joined a badminton-and-drinking league with her, and she let El and Col drag her out most weekends to clubs in increasingly weird locations and with weirder themes. 

And she decided to write. She’d studied English at Cambridge and had been quite good, according to her professors. Her mother had always accused her of having an overactive imagination. But, she’d never figured out what to write about . After all, her life was not interesting yet. 

Until she came up with the idea of an Instagram account chronicling the comings-and-goings of young London society. Not being interesting herself (yet) was a bit of a benefit; she was a keen observer and knew all the juicy backgrounds. She knew who Prince Freddie had slept with, and who was only claiming they slept with him (both of her sisters). She knew who had true money, and who was merely coasting on fumes (both of her parents). And she knew, importantly, everyone’s social media habits and regular hangouts. The account, Lady Whistledown, had acquired nearly two thousand followers in the last four weeks. Everyone was reading it, everyone was sending in tips, and nobody was admitting they were doing either. It was a thrill. 

Sunday evening had been busy: Freddie had been out with Isabella Smith-Smythe, a hipster harpist who had recently put out an avant-garde record mimicking animal sounds. Clearly, his fling with Edwina Sharma was done. Nick and Bex had gotten burgers incognito outside of Kensington Palace and the grainy phone snap was super cute — Nick had the baby strapped to his chest and a cap pulled low over sunglasses and a wig. The Victoria Beckham perfume launch party had been well attended, and Helen Goring and Cressy Cowper resumed their longstanding feud when Helen spilled a drink on Cressy’s dress. Siena Rosso had appeared at a dinner party to raise money for the Children’s Trust, and Lady Danbury hosted a book party for a woman who had alleged that a Lyons cousin had kissed her when she was sixteen — she liked to stir things up, certainly. A minor Eton-educated actor had maybe broken up with his Kiwi girlfriend, and a minor royal had definitely broken up with his South African girlfriend. Daff and her mother had been spotted at Alexander McQueen, lending credence to a rumor that Sarah Burton was designing the dress. And Anthony Bridgerton, still on his hunt for a wife, had a brunch with Eleanor Westchester, the prime minister’s stepdaughter and a handbag designer, but then was spotted with a soap actress at the opening of a new boutique and then with Kate Sharma grabbing falafel after. 

Both of her sisters had also submitted blind items about themselves — Pru that Lady Daniela took her out to manicures to call a truce (lies), and Pippa that Slightly Shady Sasha had purchased her a tea kettle at Harrods, valued at thirty thousand pounds and a gift from Queen Victoria I to her granddaughter Alexandra, when she married the last Russian tsar (this was true, but it was heinously tacky). Their mother, who was nothing if not tenacious, had also submitted six of her own. Pen deleted those.

She threw several of the photos up in the stories, DM’ed a few sources for receipts, and typed up three blinds based on the juiciest items — Freddie, the two breakups, and the Helen-Cressy feud. 

“Penny,” her boss said, right behind her. Penelope had, never in her life, asked to be called that, but it was certainly better than Sarah. “Did you have a good weekend?” 

She nodded, thinking back to the shots at Ziggy’s and the cute rugby boy who had kissed her at the pub last night and the tear-filled argument at brunch over the bridesmaid dresses for Pippa’s wedding. “Quite alright,” she smiled. “A bit boring, really.” 

“Ah. Pity that youth is wasted on the young,” she said with a smile. “Be a dear and fetch some tea, would you?” 

Around three, Colin texted “Midgertons (+ Pen + Fred)” that he was heading to White’s to watch rugby, if people were interested, but  everyone else sloughed off pretty quickly: Fred was in Ipswich to open a senior center (being punished by Prince Dick for a Daily Mail article alleging a strip-poker tournament in Windsor Castle — entirely true, Pen had blinded it last week); Daff and Fran were working (Daff pointedly asked if maybe Col should do that too); El was studying. Pen’s heart skipped a beat; it would be extremely unprofessional to leave before 4:30. 

But. 

Col. Alone. 

She stood, announced, “Gotta go pick up some decorations for our release party next week!” to nobody in particular, stuffed her laptop into her Liberty tote, and ran out.

She found Colin alone at the bar, a boot of Guinness in front of him. He wore jeans, a polo shirt, a Baracuta corduroy jacket and impeccably clean Stan Smiths. Pen couldn’t imagine that he’d gone into the Bridgerton Group offices like that. Anthony got ten suits and twenty shirts made every year by Gieves & Hawkes, and Pen hadn’t seen him out of a Hermes tie since she was ten. 

“Col! Hello!” she trilled, then cleared her throat. “I mean. Hi.” 

She hated that, years in, she had not been able to quash her infernal crush on this boy. She knew that, objectively, Ben and Anthony were more successful, Ben was certainly sexier, Anthony definitely smarter. But Col had always been nice to her, even when she was a pudgy Stowe student whose mother bought too-small uniforms to encourage her to lose weight. He had an easygoing, cool manner — everyone wanted to be Col’s best friend, and he was always happiest making others happy. He was funny, and kind, and she thought his years of travel would have quashed the girlish dreams, but hadn’t expected him to come back with a lightly scruffy beard, and honestly quite fit. 

He turned, and brightened. “Oy! You look quite nice.” She blushed. “How was work?”

“Oh, you know.” She brushed some hair from her eyes. “Quite boring. Made tea. My boss called me Penny.” 

“Well, that doesn’t suit.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you followed rugby so closely.” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s very … athletic. To watch.” 

“Lemme get you a drink.” He waved over the bartender. 

“Oh! Just water with lemon, thanks.” She slid in next to him. 

“We’ll take a water with lemon, and two more Guinnesses,” Colin ordered. 

“Col, I’m really quite —”

“Oh, it’s not for you, don’t worry. When nobody else could show I texted Marina and she’s coming.” 

Her gorgeous cousin. 

And Colin’s ex. 

Fantastic. 

“Are you two—” 

“— I’m a free agent. Like Ben and Anthony.” 

“Fantastic role models, those two,” Pen observed faintly. 

“Col! Pen! How fucking fantastic to see you!” Marina floated in, her perfect hair floating behind her. 

And that was how Penelope ended up having an absolutely lovely conversation with Marina about Pippa’s wedding planning, as Colin yelled at the rugby game on Marina’s other side, tossing chips into his mouth every so often. 

Marina was funny, tall, and undeniably cool — she was a sidelines reporter for football matches and somewhat recognizable around London. Col and Marina had dated when they were all much younger, starting just when Col began all his world travels after graduating Bristol. They’d never been strong, so they’d fallen apart easily. Marina, Pen knew, had accidentally gotten pregnant and had a miscarriage shortly before the breakup; Pen wasn’t sure if that had been a factor but she had always wondered. Today, though, they had a comfortable, amicable rapport, like primary-school friends at a reunion. 

Once she and Col got done chatting sports — Pen had absolutely nothing to add, naturally — she turned toward her cousin with a smile. “Did you see that item on that new instagram, Lady Whistledown, last week? About Sasha’s finances?” 

“Oh?” Pen questioned. She’d run a piece questioning Slightly Shady Sasha’s insistence that he was simply ‘oil money.’ “No I didn’t think I did.” Her voice was nervous; she was such a bad liar. 

“You should follow,” Marina said encouragingly. “It’s a smart account.” She gave Pen an appraising look. “She knows where the bread is buttered.” 

Pen could only nod.

The raucous roar covered a beep from her phone. When she finally heard it, she furtively slipped it out of her bag. Made sure Marina wasn’t looking as she checked which account. 

It was a DM to Lady Whistledown, from @Queen_Char: Who, my dear, are you?

“Ant,” Kate said, somewhat sheepishly, as she opened the door. “Thanks for coming over. Sorry I didn’t really want to … hit up a literacy gala.” 

Anthony stood on her doorstep, a bag of London’s most delicious Indian takeaway in his grasp. “S’ok Sharma.” He grinned, stepped in and planted a kiss full on her mouth. She was surprised that, on 8:30 on a Thursday, he was not wearing a suit — instead, he’d slipped into a Dunhill sweater, checked trousers, and Clarks. It made her feel better for having changed from the Misha Noonoo dress she’d worn for court into a comfier silk jumpsuit from Cos, matching bandana tied over straightened hair. “Daff always gets a good turnout no matter how much she stresses.” 

“Do she … do this often?” She hung up his Burberry trench, then grabbed the bag of food from him. Daphne had emailed her, very apologetically on Tuesday, inviting her to a charity dinner to benefit the Chelsea Letters Society that she really needed to drum up attendance for. Kate had been able to decline given that her flight from Rotterdam didn’t land until seven — true — but it felt like it had been engineered by Anthony, so she’d used it as an invitation to suggest dinner instead. It was intended to purely be a prelude to a hookup — it has been nearly a week and he was very good in bed — but now that he was here it felt very obviously like a date. 

He didn’t seem perturbed though. 

“Maybe once a week? Serving as a host, I mean,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen. “Goes to probably four things a week. Tomorrow’s the opening of a new nightclub and Monday night is a benefit for the Royal Ballet. Mother’s on the board so I have to go.”

Kate received and accepted that invitation, which had also arrived this week. Ant hadn’t been kidding when he said his circle had many parties. “Well, I appreciate you bailing with me tonight.” 

“You know I don’t love those dog-and-pony shows. Can I help with anything?”

“Sure. Pour wine?” She handed him a bottle and a corkscrew.

“Happy to,” he agreed. “First —” he swung her around and kissed her more deeply, “Hey.” 

“Hey.” Between his trip to look at a solar cooperative in Zimbabwe and her day in the Hague, she hadn’t seen him since Sunday. The four-day gap was the longest they’d gone since the Black Book party, and especially with Edwina’s tournament in Miami, Kate’s London life had felt strangely open. She’d grabbed sushi with Soph and succumbed to the urge to drink a large glass of wine and finally google Anthony and his family. 

It had been eye-opening, to say the least, and she better understood his insistence that privilege could be a prison. Professional society snaps from parties and polo matches were in mags like Horse & Hound and Tatler, but most frequently she found photos, now years old, in the Mirror and the Mail and the Sun: falling out of nightclubs with the boys; long-lens shots of him laughing on yachts with Nick and Bex; leaving restaurants with about fourteen different women; even looking annoyed as he took a preteen Eloise to a circus. Nothing was particularly newsworthy, just nosy, though several of the articles implied drugs and prostitutes in his vicinity. His father’s funeral had been covered in extensive detail — VIRILE VISCOUNT FELLED BY VICIOUS INSECT … LORD LAID FLAT, FAMILY FLAILS … LAD LORD STUMBLES OUT OF MAYFAIR CLUB, MISSING FATHER?  — by a host of unsavory outlets. 

The entire thing sounded horrific — his father had been stung by a bee and gone into anaphylactic shock, healthy to dead in minutes. She’d known this, once, but Ben had never gone into detail. The British tabloids had a month-long field day with it, though. Photos of Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca  — ten, eight, and seven at the time — crying had run on the front page of the Mail with the headline DEVASTATED DAUGHTERS REALIZE: DADDY’S NOT COMING HOME. 

The coverage of the entire family around Edmund’s death felt deeply invasive. But it was particularly harsh on Anthony and Daphne. Ant got a solid several years of picking-on as the youngest, most forlorn, ‘Lad Lord’ in the country; Daphne plenty of misogynistic interest, first when she emerged as Prince Freddie’s long-term girlfriend (a headline from when she was eighteen speculated if she was pregnant and an alcoholic due to her daddy issues), and then when she started dating Simon. Kate was well aware of the racism in British society and some of the articles still made her stomach turn. It gave her a newfound empathy for Daphne and all her parties; that she would still choose the life she chose.   

And coverage had died down, but not out. She found photos of him and Siena from just six months ago, him annoyed, her surprised, stumbling out of Tribe. She didn’t think the two of them would merit any photographers — they were barely together when they were at the same events — but she had seen a blind about him floating around Instagram. Definitely something to think about  

“Your place is nice,” he said, peering around into the dining room on one side of the kitchen and the living room in front. “Cozy.” 

“Is that posh for small?” She quirked a corner of her mouth. “No views of the Thames but we somehow make do.“ The house was a cozy three bedrooms, recently updated and cleanly modern; just under 170m, anyone normal would consider it lovely and upmarket. “I do need to answer some emails after we eat if that’s OK. And I usually watch recordings of Edwina’s matches.” 

“How’s she playing?” 

She’d FaceTimed Kate thirty minutes before her match started, in tears, forcing Kate to find a place to talk in the airport. “She’s great. It’s exciting for her to be back on tour.” 

There was a polite and formal quality to their exchange — with the exception of his phone call a couple Fridays ago, their hookups started socially: at an event or after rowing. She liked seeing him in those circumstances, it was like warming up for trial: Sparring, flirting, seeing who could be the first to say wanna have fun; then, seeing who could make the other come first. He could switch modes from magnetically cocky to maddeningly competitive to prissily posh in a matter of seconds, and all were engaging, intriguing challenges. He amused and exasperated her and she enjoyed figuring out which one he was going to do next.   

But this — him crowding her space, surreptitiously smelling her hair, handing her a fork and pouring her a glass of wine — also felt a little too intimate, close, ordinary. The fun was in the push-pull — with him and with others. It was a role, a game, a form of entertainment, when they were out. Here, though, there was no audience. 

She wished she’d just manned up and gone to Daphne’s dinner. 

She shook her head, and he smirked, catching the effect he was having. It settled her a bit; a challenge to fight for the upper hand again. “And then you get the place all to yourself.” He slowly kissed her neck. Ran his hands up her sides, ghosted under her breasts. “Do all sorts of … private things.” 

“Careful,” she murmured, kissing him back. “I’m very particular about my private time.” He hopped her onto a counter, kissing her until one of their elbows dashed the rice to the floor.

“Shit,” he said. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” she hopped down and opened her fridge for a tupperware container. “South Asians always have more rice around. We really should eat, though.” She gave him a firm look, trying to restore the balance of power. “And then I need forty-five minutes to work.” 

Dinner was a quick, relatively non-handsy, open-laptop affair; eaten in front of the TV as she stresswatched Edwina’s match and typed at a brief. When he started to grumble angrily at his laptop, she glanced over and realized she’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t noticed important details: he had put on glasses, and he was chewing on a pen cap, which was making his jaw do things, which was very momentarily distracting. He looked younger, not older, with the glasses; truly boyishly handsome, a new version she was discovering that she liked a bit too much. But then his screen caught her eye: A complicated ledger software, with a HYACINTH BRIDGERTON budget file open.

“Are you … monitoring your siblings’ allowances?” she asked incredulously. 

He raised an eyebrow, confused by her surprise. The pen cap shifted in his mouth. “Yes. Hy is blowing all her pocket money on Snapchat credits, and Daff signed a hundred-thousand-pound contract for flowers for her wedding. Her budget was seventy-five. I will talk to her in the morning; that will come out of her food and drink budget. Hy needs to be grounded.” 

“That’s absurd, first of all, but also … your fifteen-year-old sister has how many millions waiting for her and you’re grounding her over an extra tenner?” 

“An extra f ifty .” 

“I can’t decide if this is endearing or overbearing.” 

“First it’s this and next she’s throwing herself a fifty-grand sweet sixteen like Col did and then she’s throwing a wedding like Daff’s. It’s a slippery slope.” 

“You would be an awful big brother to have.” 

He nodded toward the telly. “You’ve been muttering at a recording of Edwina and you know she won. So you’re …” 

“ — A bit of a hypocrite, I suppose.” She smirked, sent off the brief she was writing, and then checked her personal email. “Oy, did you see this from Ben? About the Roaring Twenties party he’s hosting next week when Knightsbridge Manor premieres? You know, I used to host something similar in New York —” She noticed that he shifted uncomfortably, then winced, and she stopped. 

Ah. He clearly had a date that night. 

“Oooohh and how is the marriage mart?” she teased. At his grimace, she continued, in her poshest accent, “Ah, have you not found a woman whose face is pleasing? Whose manners, genteel? Whose wit, acceptable?” She truly could not believe she was friends with, sleeping with, and enjoying the company of, someone who viewed the world in this way, but it was fun as hell to judge it from up close. “Very surprised that after four whole weeks of searching for this woman, she hasn’t thrown herself in front of you simply because of your cute smile.” 

“So you find my smile cute,” he shot back, flashing the aforementioned cute smile. 

“I find you entirely full of yourself,” she responded. 

“I told you you’d be the first to know and I meant that.” He slid puppy eyes over to her, underscoring his seriousness, and she shifted to look forward, stomach flickering. He was soft, and serious, and the earnestness was simply too much. “No, if I must marry … they all cannot hold a conversation for the two hours of a date, let alone a lifetime. And then they also must be independent so …” he shook his head, in a bit of so you see motion. “It’s a fine line.” 

That made her snort. He was ridiculous, truly. “Or you could just. Not marry. It’s a choice many of us have made.” 

“It’s my duty, though. And passing the title along to any child of Benedict’s will assure that the family is destroyed within the next two generations.” That was probably true. He shifted up, intrigued by her position. “Do you really not want to get married? I know it’s the pits out there, but ever?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t want to date anyone seriously, and I like that my life is my own. I could pick up and go to Bali if I wanted to, tomorrow.” It had been her line for forever about settling down, and it was as true today as it was six years ago.

“You would n’t , though,” he pointed out. “You have your dad and sister and mum. You moved back for your family.” 

She shifted again. “Marriage is different. It’s … not something I’ve ever wanted for myself.” Marriage was truly something abstract. Potentially one day, she could see herself with a partner, a bloke who was as down for a spontaneous weekend in Paris as he was for backpacking through Nepal for three weeks. She’d like to do those things, share those memories, with someone.

Just, not in a way that tied her down. She had so many ties already.  

“You’re lucky you have a choice,” he replied. 

She didn’t feel particularly lucky at the moment. Impulsively, she leaned over to kiss him, to stop this conversation before it became too much. She climbed into his lap, sliding her hands everywhere, trying hard to not think. He sensed the need, responded accordingly.

Then her mobile rang. 

“Fuck me,” she groaned.

“Trying to.” He smirked. She pressed a finger to his lips as she answered — of course it was her boss — and he nipped the tip. She climbed off his lap in retaliation.  

It was a brief conversation: Steve wanted another argument included, and now. “Sorry,” she said, as she hung up. “You can head out if you want.” 

He shrugged. “I always have work and don’t know how Edwina’s match turned out.”   

Two hours later, brief finally sent back to Steve, she shut her laptop and turned to him.

Ant was completely zonked out, head lolled back on the couch, glasses askew, laptop in Sleep. She snickered, leaned over to kiss his nose. He started, and she laughed more vibrantly. “You should head home,” she said, nuzzling his neck. “If you want.” 

“I don’t want,” he mumbled petulantly. “It is very late, and you are very comfortable, and I need beauty sleep if I am to kick your arse tomorrow morning.” He yawned. “I brought clothes. I prepared for arse-kicking, unlike you.” 

She laughed and ran a thumb along his cheek before kissing him again. “Upstairs, then.” 

She wasn’t sure if he fully woke up as they padded up to her room, or when she gave him a toothbrush, or when she changed into a periwinkle silk cami and nothing else. Hell, she was getting sleepy herself when he rolled over and whispered, “Night Sharma,” before immediately passing out.  

She herself was halfway to sleep when she realized that they had not had sex, and had barely fooled around that evening, and yet he was in her bed, wrapped around her like a boyfriend.

She had a hard time getting to sleep after that.

 “So what’s this shoot for, anyways?” Sophie asked, legs stretched long on the couch in his studio as she dipped injera into a container of sega wot. 

Ben smiled lazily over at her, watching her as she flicked her braids down her back. “Inspiration. In all its forms.” Soph was the first to sit, but he could see the full spread: Friends and lovers and family, stripped down and simple: their essence unfurled, their needs and motivations unable to hide. The truths and desires that drove generations, the truths that one tried to hide from oneself — made plain through the lens of the camera. 

People lied — to others, but mostly to themselves. People tried to act the way they thought the world expected them to. Ben knew this. The truth was always clearer, more purely expressed, in art. And photography was the best medium for humans and their silly emotions.

He’d get Ant, haunted and duty-bound and cocky as all-hell. Daff, smug and serene and sure. El, defiant and righteous and just a little ashamed. Kate, too busy saving the world to enjoy it. Henry, always in search of the next beautiful moment. 

And Sophie, his muse. Fragile and beautiful and stronger than she knew. Ben wanted to reflect to the world what he drew from each of these people, what made him look at them twice. He loved fashion photography, and would always love figuring out how to turn one’s eye toward something beautiful and striking and new, but as he hit his second decade as a photographer he wanted to break away. 

“Well, that’s perfectly vague. Will be a great exhibit,” she teased. “How’s Anthony’s search for a wife going?” 

Ben snorted. It had been everyone’s favorite topic of conversation for weeks, hands huddled over their mouths to keep from laughing about it at various dinners and galas. “He stopped searching weeks ago. Going on three dates a week, something wrong with every single girl, and ending up at Kate’s half the time. Angry and mad and barking orders at everyone, all the time. Poor bloke.” 

“Nightmare,” Sophie agreed. “I mean, it’s entertaining.” 

“But a nightmare,” he agreed. Once Anthony’s mind was made up, it was nearly impossible to persuade him to change course. He’d decided that he needed a wife, he’d determined it needed to be a particular type of wife, and he would probably flirt with Kate, sitting in the pews, as he walked down the aisle to marry this wife. Not that Kate would be any better — he’d known Kate since she was eighteen and she rivaled only Ant in her capacity to be stubborn and bull-headed. Neither of them knew when to bag anything . They would run at each other until they combusted. “Though very entertaining.”

Ben knew, of course, that being second-born was the ultimate privilege; many Ornery Anthony personality traits — though certainly not all, and certainly not as many as Anthony would like to claim  — tied back to his older brother’s tortured relationship to his position in the birth order. Anthony had to settle the accounts when their father died; Anthony got the brunt of their mother’s pleas to just marry already ; Anthony had to make sure everyone’s tuition was paid and that Daff’s wedding was covered. He wore the title ‘lord’ uneasily, always looking around furtively for their father whenever anyone said it. Benedict only had the title of ‘favorite brother’. He would walk over coals for Ant for that reason alone. 

Because that meant Ben got to live life exactly how he wanted it. Daff could be driven by stability and Ant by duty, but he got to be driven by his creativity, his vision, his perspective, his desires. He could be interesting, ironic, sardonic, absurd. He had known he was not-straight, and therefore didn’t quite fit in with Society, by the time he was six, and that had fuelled his desire to find a place that was specifically his, a life on his own terms. He was grateful, now, that he was comfortable enough to pick and choose when he accepted Society and when he didn’t. Of and also Outside. El often still felt like her unbelonging was a flaw of her own making. He tried to reassure her that a life of one’s own design was far more comfortable. 

Because he lived , every moment, every experience, chased a feeling of more, always . He saw beauty, he saw truth, with his camera and his eye. And he enjoyed each and every single thing.

None of his siblings could say that. None could say that they knew themselves fully, that they accepted themselves fully, in the face of the sorrow and loss and uncertainty that the world threw at you. He embraced all of those. Appreciated them for what they were; was aware of the magnetism that sureness created. 

“Kate refuses to talk to me about it — just says they’re friends,” Soph said, her eyes flashing and gossipy. She was entrancing like this, had entranced him since he was twenty-one. She was the only person whose actions he couldn’t predict, who never dulled him, just a little. “Gimme the dirt.” 

He smirked. “Edwina’s gone now, on Tour and out of the country through Wimbledon. Which means Kate will let him come to her place. So I don’t know where he is, but he’s not-home … four days a week? They’re rowing every weekday, at least. And they’re leaving events within five minutes of each other —” 

“At least two of those nights,” Sophie finished. She sighed. “What a hopeless disaster, for both of them.” She picked at her beef. “Anyways. Before we get started — I got an email from Pippa Featherington yesterday.”

“Tell her that I absolutely cannot photograph her tacky Love Island wedding.” 

“Be nice, it’s Pru on Kensington Bred . And honestly I heard she’s going to be a Strictly Come Dancing contestant come summer — that drunk meme from their Essex episode basically made her a star.”  

“Pippa’s wedding will still be … not our taste.” They’d all have to sign NDAs until Pru’s broadcast aired; the reception would probably be sponsored by some liquor company. 

“Yes, but in a Russian way. Slightly Shady Sasha wants a vodka tower, according to Lady Whistledown.” See, he wasn’t wrong.

“Why are we talking about the Featherington girls?” They were the worst of Society: rich, ugly, and, most unforgivable, unbearably boring. 

“Pippa. Who you have known since her christening, probably. Who went to nursery school with Col. Would like to know if we should have a joint or two single invitations to her wedding this June.” Sophie’s eyes were wide, and, surprisingly, wary. 

“What’s the difference? Course we’ll both attend.” 

“Well, you know, if we have the same dinner card. That sort of thing.” 

“That doesn’t matter.” 

“It’s more … It tells people how to think. Of us.” Soph looked at a loss for words, like she was gaping beyond what she knew and could articulate.

“When have we cared what people think of us?” he responded, genuinely confused. They had been to at least a dozen weddings and this had never been an issue.

“‘I’m not saying that we do, I’m just saying … sometimes it’s simpler. Pick one or the other.” 

“We’ve never wanted or needed to be simple or just one thing ,” he laughed, “But if mumsy Pippa Featherington needs to affix a quaint label to things — tell her we’re happy to attend together.” He picked up his camera, peered through it at her to adjust aperture.

“Will do,” Soph said, quickly cleaning up her takeaway containers, hands fluttering over used napkins. Then she paused, returning to the question. “You know — Daphne and Simon’s wedding is in August. And Samantha Smith-Smythe in July, as is Tricia Twombley’s. And Angus Westchester will be marrying Maria Calthorpe this fall. Some of those people are interesting. We like some of them.” 

“Sure, let’s throw them a wake,” he teased, moving the camera away from his face temporarily, “for all our friends marching into a life of middlebrow obscurity. All black everything, some dirges.”  

“That’s not my point,” she said softly, and he adjusted the lens to focus on her eyes, faraway and unsure. 

“What is your point, Sophie?” he asked, slightly exasperated. She did this sometimes, nudged into whatever point she was making without just saying something. 

She bit her lip. “I meant. There will be many other people, less drippy people, asking us the same questions as Pippa. For a label. For a status of where we are, but six months ahead of time.”  

He tried a cajoling grin. “Tell the society bores whatever you want,” he suggested. “And if I can make it, I will.” 

She made a harrumph sound. “Well, if you can’t make it, say that now.” 

He squinted, not sure they were having the same conversation. “What is this, Soph?” 

“It’s nothing,” she promised, but it was a protest. She looked nervous, squirming a bit under his eyes. “I’d just … I’d like not to ask, Benedict. I’d like it if we were just … wedding dates. That we knew that, that everyone knew that. That it was expected in six months, we’d just … be. Be together, be dependable.” Her tone was plain, honest, kind. 

He scoffed, in absolute disbelief. Sophie was the last person he ever expected to go square. She’d probably had more orgies than him, had definitely tried more exciting drugs, got to go to better parties because she didn’t have a maniacal older brother sticking a Google Alert on her. “You don’t,” he declared, bored and a little impatient. “Because what we are —” unlabeled, undefined, floating between Society and Art and Fashion — “is so much more than these stupid wedding invitations can convey.” 

Her eyes flashed down briefly before she smiled at him, and he took the photo.

Kate raised the phone all around her, careful to give Eddie a three-hundred-sixty degree view of the ridiculous navy headpiece. “See, bon, the hat situation is under control.” Well, mostly. It still felt a little unstable, but there was nothing Edwina could do from six hundred miles away.

“Oh it is!” Edwina trilled from Stuttgart. “You look dashing, didi.” 

She gave her sister a faux-stern look. “You’re the only person I know who has met the Queen so you’re my authority on these silly hats.” she said. “So I’m trusting you.”  

“Ah ah ah,” Edwina said. “Queen Eleanor is Anthony’s godmother, and he’s your date this evening.” 

“We’re just going together. It’s not a date.” 

“Whatever. Lemme see the dress.” 

Kate shifted to try and get a full angle of the dress. It was a midi-length Carolina Herrera, the most saturated shade of saffron that Kate had seen, excluding South Asian designers. Simple and cap-sleeved, with a modest diamond cut out revealing a peek of cleavage, it was much more conservative than she usually wore, but absolutely luxurious and refined. She had spent nearly two thousand pounds on it, the most she had ever spent on an article of clothing. 

Sophie, who had appointed herself Kate’s stylist, had eagerly been filling Kate's closet with purchased and acquired pieces from Prabal Gurung, Stella, Victoria Beckham, Altuzarra, Chanel, and Theia, over the last five weeks — the designer versions of her Zadig & Voltaire/Alice & Olivia/COS/Hobbs High Street wardrobe. Sophie was approaching the challenge with her buzzy It-Girl energy, impeccable style, all her connections, and the occasional-but-strategic use of Edwina’s name. Some were for nights out with Sophie and others were for events with Edwina and a few were even for work, but Kate knew that far, far too many of them were for when she just got … scooped along by Ant and the rest of the Bridgertons. 

They were good fun, and slightly ridiculous, and a needed distraction, she reasoned. 

Today’s event was not such a scooping-up, though. It was the annual Oxford-Cambridge Championship Boat Race, the single biggest sporting event for both universities. The women rowed first, then the men; it was broadcast on the BBC and tens of thousands of people would come down to the Thames to view it from large-screen TVs set up to view the entire race. She had never really gotten to celebrate Boat Race Sunday — as she was always racing in it — but it seemed like one of those glorious collegiate springtime parties where you really did feel like everything was absolutely perfect, that you were exactly where you were supposed to be, with the people you were meant to do it with. It was expansive, possible, deliriously drunk. Alumni and general Londoners joined in on the fun, of course. You really did not need an excuse to day-drink just as the weather turned nice. 

The Kensington Club’s massive atrium had a perfect view of the start line, and so they were throwing a formal garden party to view both races and then to celebrate. Each alumni association had taken a section for the pre-race portion of the party — Oxford in the polo field gardens and Cambridge on the tennis courts, and they’d all come into the building for the race and after-party. The Oxford Rowing Trust had asked Kate and all her teammates back to lead a cheer — their team had been the last, women or men’s, to win, which was a glum thought since it had been six years. Anthony, of course, was a massive donor and all-around Oxford fanboy. It was, definitively, something that they both would have gone to no matter what, and so they’d decided to just … go together.

“There, bon, are you happy?” She swung the phone down to get the brown leather pumps, flicked them over her gold earrings. “Now, how about you, how are you feeling?” 

Edwina sighed, twisting. “I just hate clay. I suppose it’s good that I’m practicing on it, and Coach says I’m getting better. But my feet always feel sticky , like there’s gum on my shoe and can’t be under the ball fast enough.”

“Keep your routine the same, before everything. Don’t fixate, but minimize opportunities to let your mind wander. Settle into the moment. Feel your own power. Deep breaths.” Kate peeked out the window to see Anthony’s Jag drive up. “Why don’t I come out tomorrow?” She had a depo to prep for but she could do that on the plane. 

“Yes, you must, if you can get a ticket,” Edwina said. “Oh, didi, thank you.” 

“Of course, bon. I need to —” 

“Go! Have fun! I’ll be watching movies to decompress.” 

A final spritz of Jo Malone and she was ready. Anthony was already at her door  when she opened it. “Hey,” she said with a smile. He was wearing a lightweight pale-gray suit, much more playful look than his typical navy, severely cut ones. He had a light blue shirt, a yellow tie, and a marigold pocket square, coordinated touches she suspected were deftly engineered by Sophie. “Ready to go?” 

“Hey,” he replied. He popped a quick, mindless kiss on her mouth. “Now I am.” He stepped back, cocked his head. “Wait. Your hat …” and he reached up to push a pin in, brushing his fingers over her forehead. The hat magically stopped wobbling. “There. That’ll do.” 

The ride to the Club was quick and easy, the two of them trading barbs back and forth — trash talk about Friday’s morning row (she had beat him), teasing about his obstinacy around Daff’s wedding price tag, arguing about a recent Parliamentary bill and whether or not Arsenal (his team) had applied the correct strategies against Richmond (her team). They parked, still debating whether a last-minute substitution was the right call, and by the time they walked into the Club, she noticed that he had, quite naturally, taken her hand. 

He had to drop it almost immediately as her teammates — many of whom she hadn’t seen since graduation — mobbed her, and she realized felt a phantom caress for far longer than she should have. But he wasn’t ever far. If this had been a date he would be annoyingly good at it: he grabbed a drink for her, dragged her over to talk to Ben and El, pulled her over for a casual introduction to an associate who was mad about rowing. She noticed herself noticing him — turning sharply when she heard his laugh, twisting her body to keep him in her eyesight. She frowned. It was too easy. Too automatic, to keep him in her orbit. 

“Ms. Sharma,” a voice said from behind her, and she turned. 

“Dr. Dorset,” she smiled politely. It had been nice, at Sophie’s exhibition opening, to meet one of her father’s pupils. To know that people still remembered him as the brilliant doctor he was, not just as the rabid cricket fan with a walker. And he was boyishly attractive, with the fratty handsomeness of a Kennedy that she’d grown so accustomed to in New York. She’d gone to Nantucket for the weekend with many Dorsets, and enjoyed all of them.

If only he hadn’t put his foot in his mouth. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he said immediately. Well. That was impressive. “For how I phrased my recollection of your father. When I was very young and new, he was kind to me. He’s deeply compassionate and talented. And he’s easily one of the best surgeons I ever had the privilege to see in action. That is what I should have said.” 

Her smile softened into something genuine. “Thank you. I apologize for responding so harshly.” She stared at her drink before looking back up at him. “It’s still hard, sometimes, even though he’s had PD for ten years.” 

Dorset’s eyes were kind. “He mentioned you did a great deal to help.” 

“The happy burdens of an oldest daughter.” 

“Hullo, Tom,” Anthony said, coming up beside them and wrapping an arm possessively around Kate’s waist. She stepped a miniscule amount to the side, and he tightened his grip. She placed a hand over his and squeezed it, more of a warning than anything truly affectionate. “Surprised you haven’t headed for the beach again.” 

Tom raised an eyebrow at the barb. “I’ll be in town all summer fundraising, and then I’ll head back to Haiti, an island nation in desperate need of medical resources.” 

“Did you need anything?” she asked Anthony. He was being rude, and she tried to convey that in her tone.

“You,” he said, then cleared his throat, looking a little abashed. “I mean, the organizers are looking for you. It’s your big moment.” 

“Oh! OK. Thanks. Excuse me. Good to see you, Tom.” She untwisted from Anthony and headed toward the stage, in the middle of the garden. 

The varsity team was twenty-five strong and all the girls had arrived; when the announcer called them onstage the nine who had been in the boat six years earlier scooted toward the front. Kate smiled, happy and a little sweaty and uncomfortable, as the eyes of three hundred turned toward them. “And now, a word from our last winning team captain, Kate Sharma,” the organizer, a petite woman with a loud voice and a large pink hat, exclaimed. A mic was shoved down the line to her. 

Well, that was surprising. She had only expected to lead a cheer, and she hated unplanned public speaking. Still practiced her arguments in front of a mirror before she took them in front of a judge. Licking her lips, she sighed and took a deep breath, feeling unbearably hot in this stupid sun, in the middle of a polo field. In the crowd, Sophie smiled and Ben pretended to catcall; Ant, next to them, looked almost protective as he assessed her. They made eye contact and gave her a thumbs up and a quiet you got this look with a careful nod. Instantly, she felt calmer. 

“We’re all here because we have happy memories of Oxford,” she began. “And so many of mine involve these twenty-four girls. Early mornings on the Thames. A very long victory party, six years ago this weekend. This is a special school, a special team. The Boat Race brings out the best of the Oxford spirit, our work ethic, our love of tradition, our drive, and of course our support for our community. Rowing and Oxford shaped us all so much. Win or lose I couldn’t be prouder of this team and this university. But let’s bloody win today.” The crowd roared, and Tori, her vice-captain, stepped up to help get the chant started. 

The cheers were still going as they left the stage, and Anthony found her immediately. “You did bloody brilliantly,” he said with a sure smirk. He leaned forward, and kissed her. “Gonna call you Good Luck Sharma when they win.” 

“You’re very friendly today,” she said with a laugh, scanning to see who exactly was around, before kissing him back.

And then … something broke. She didn’t really care if they were friends or friends with benefits or something else entirely. Where he was was where she wanted to be, exactly here on this perfect spring day surrounded by friends old and new, by people who didn’t know her well yet respected her and found her impressive. No bills to pay, no father to tend to, no Edwina to worry about.

She didn’t leave his side the rest of the party, his arm back around her as they made their way through the crowd and hung with his siblings and her crewmates, a few of whom gave her surreptitious well played, Ka te' s. Both the Cambridge and Oxford parties eventually moved inside, in front of three large televisions, to watch the first race. Unsurprisingly, Anthony was an extremely enthusiastic spectator, the type that yelled Move Your Arses!  and whistled, the vein in his neck bulging, even though they were miles away. She found she approved. Deeply . 

So when the women crossed under Chiswick a half-length ahead of Cambridge, she turned in his arms to kiss him first — crazed and excited and so thrilled that her team was no longer the reigning Oxford champions.

And when the men won by a hair's breadth, and he hung onto her entire body, she practically growled, “We are going to have so much fun tonight,” as he whooped in her ear.

And when he said, “We’re all grabbing dinner, let’s get out of here,” she followed him, slid into the booth next to him and across from Ben and Soph, Daff and Simon and El and Col rounding out the group. She leaned against him, cozy and content, exhilarated but exhausted in the haze of a very good day. 

And when he led her back to her place, she let him spend the night, left a key on the nightstand and gave him a kiss on his forehead as she left for Stuttgart, whispering a see you soon . He squeezed her hand and gave it a soft kiss, eyes still closed, then turned to go back to sleep. 

It wasn’t until she was halfway over the English Channel that she finally asked herself: What the hell am I doing? 

Chapter Text

Always resignation and acceptance. Always prudence  and honour  and duty. Elinor, where is your heart? -- Sense and Sensibility

“Poker night?” Kate asked interestedly. “I fucking love poker. I’m in.”

Anthony choked on his coffee. “No,” he sputtered, more vehemently than he intended. “Women don’t play poker.” 

“Women don’t play poker?” Kate repeated, her voice arching into an edge. Col and Ben looked at their plates, suddenly deeply interested in whatever the waffles were trying to say. “Tell me, Ant, is that something Ye Olde House of Lords passed? Because if so I’m happy to, you know, change that law. As a solicitor. Something else women can be, now.” 

“Sod off, you know I don’t mean it like that,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s just … It’s Boys’ Night.” His voice collapsed into a very boyish whinge. 

“What he means to say is that they spend a lot of time complaining about their wives and girlfriends,” Col, who was not invited to Boys’ Night, because Ant spent a lot of time complaining about him (and most of the siblings), translated. 

“Well luckily I am neither, so what’s the problem?” Kate challenged. 

“Technically brother, she’s right,” Ben said mirthfully. “The only rule is around wives or girlfriends. People have invited friends before; that’s how Fife got in.” 

“She’s my —”

“Friend.” Kate’s eyes sparkled with her win.

“You know, you’re my friend too, Kate,” Ben said. “I’d love to invite you, if you’re free this evening.” 

“Wait, can I come then?” Col asked.

“No,” Anthony chorused with Ben. 

“She doesn’t have clearance for entry,” Anthony protested. The original attendees of Boys Night were Ant, Ben, Simon, and Nick; he wasn’t going to kick out his oldest mate for his … his Kate. 

“You know,” Kate said, very very conversationally, to Ben, “I’m pretty sure Scotland Yard has all my data somewhere given that I have UN and Hague clearances.” 

“You know, you’re absolutely right,” Ben replied to her. “I’ll text Nick and get that going.” 

“Did you know when they clear you to argue in the Hague, they collect blood and saliva in case a terrorist blows it up?” 

“That’s so cool,” Colin blurted out, genuinely impressed.

The four of them were out to brunch on a mild, damp Saturday morning, and of course the only seating the restaurant Col had insisted on was outside. Kate was sitting diagonally from him, next to Benedict, bundled in Moncler and Burberry and Hunters against the chill. She looked tired, and had been quiet — for her — until the mention of his and Ben’s poker night. 

He hadn’t seen her in nearly a week, her Sudanese-officials case taking her to the Hague again, and he then needed a day in Scotland to inspect his newly acquired wind farm. In the interim he’d had a second date with Cassandra Montague, who refreshingly just called herself a ‘socialite’ and didn’t pretend to design purses, as well as Eleanor Westchester, who absolutely did design purses and refused to call herself a socialite. Anthony had been excited when Ben announced that he’d invited “my dear chum, Kate, who I haven’t seen in ages ” to their brunch plans — a regular weekly catchup pre-fencing — but he wondered if she was disappointed the invite had come from Ben, not him. 

Even though they weren’t dating, and there was therefore no reason he should invite her to spend time with his family. 

“If that’s all cleared up then, thank you for the invitation, Benedict. I’d love to come,” Kate replied sweetly. “And I have to say it’s extremely mature of you, given that last time we played poker, you lost five thousand quid and all your clothes.” 

Anthony groaned. “Of course you’re bloody proficient at poker. You’re going to take all my money, aren’t you?” 

“Not all of it,” she teased, “but only because you’re very, very rich. I will take quite a lot of it.” 

“ Must you enjoy all my hobbies as well?” he faux-groused, clearly teasing. 

“I think you mean, must I be able to do everything you like to do, only better?” she parried back.

“Truly though, is there anything you can’t do?” Col asked. He was clearly trying to be friendly but his voice took on a formal, posh tone that Anthony knew was his default in new situations, but Kate probably took offense.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m a terrible musician. And with the exception of about three curries, nothing in the domestic arts.” She stuck out her tongue a bit playfully.  

“Speaking of the domestic arts, how is your search through London’s Moderately Eligible going?” Ben, the arse, tipped his temple against his thumb as he asked, eager for storytime.

“Mmm yes!” Kate exclaimed, ready to join in on the mocking. “We were back out with Cassandra Montague this week, I believe — how did that go?” 

He cocked his head. “If you’re going to find out information as my friend , then the least you can do is not share information with these two.” She made a face he couldn’t quite read in return. 

“Oh, come off it, that one was on Whistledown,” Col said.

“Whistledown?”

“That new gossip Instagram, Lady Whistledown? All blind items, and they’re clever, so you have to know things. But she’s got about five thousand followers now.” 

He remembered the account, but he hadn’t followed up. “You’re reading that trash?” he asked Col.

“ Relax ,” Col said. “It’s not, like, a gossip rag. It’s all good fun. She’s like, rooting for everyone? It’s funny but it’s not mean. And she’s clearly one of us.” 

“What makes you so clear it’s a she?” Ben asked.

“Of course it’s a woman,” Kate said with a scoff. “No man is that observant.” 

“You follow it?” he asked her.

“Naturally,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Edwina’s one of her favorite subjects.” 

“And I suppose you’re reading for me now, too,” he said petulantly.

“What if I am?” Her voice was impatient. “Col’s right, it’s … very familiar. I honestly think your lot probably knows her quite well.” 

“Nobody we know would be that indiscreet.”

“I think you might be surprised about what people do and don’t reveal out loud.” She raised her eyebrow. “Anyways. Thank you for letting me crash your bro-fast. I need to get off to the office and catch up on what I missed while at trial.” She put her napkin down, and started to gather her things.

“I should probably be going into the office as well,” Anthony admitted.

“This isn’t a sex ruse is it?” Col — sweet dumb Col — asked.

Kate looked like she would put him in bars next to her dictators. “No, Col, it’s called having a demanding job,” she said, severely. Anthony slapped the back of his head to make clear what side he was on. 

“You’re supposed to come fencing with us, though, come on, just for an hour,” Ben cajoled. 

“I’ve got a shareholders meeting on Friday and I’m behind on both my quarterly targets and the presentation.” 

Col wrinkled his brows. “When have you ever been behind on your quarterly targets?” 

The truth was, never. Part of it was some investments — like the wind farm — but he also had to admit that the wife hunt meant he was clocking fewer hours. Quite ironic, given that his desire for a wife was rooted in his professional success. 

“We’re making a lot of aggressive investments, alright?” He spoke slowly, because Col could barely be bothered to work half-time. “That’s revenue out .” 

“Bond market’s doing quite well,” Kate pointed out, momentarily pausing from rifling in her bag. “You could cash out some there to free up equity for the new investments and make up for stock losses?” 

“They’re riskier investments than the bonds, though.” 

“What’s your forecast? If they’re going to pay off in the near-term it’s probably worth it. Or you could structure the cooperative contract for a Q3 down payment if you expended your reserve this quarter.”

“That could work …” he said slowly. It wasn’t going to completely reset his forecasts but it would probably save him two hours of work today.

“Great. So you can come fencing with us,” Ben declared. 

“On that note, Bro-dgertons,” Kate said, with a mini-salute. “It’s been fun.” 

Ben stood to cheek-kiss her. “You’re coming to El and Fran’s on Thursday, yes?” 

“Um?” Her eyes flicked, involuntarily, to Ant.

“It’s their birthday, El’s twenty-four and Fran’s twenty-three,” Ben explained. “Same day, actually. They’re doing a big blowout — or at least, El is — at some club on Friday, but they wanted to do a Fancy Dinner Party on the actual day. It’s small, maybe forty or so.” 

“A quarter Bridgertons,” Col supplied. 

“What is Fancy for you all?” 

“It mostly means a lot of champagne at Mum’s house,” Ben assured her. “Come on, say you’ll come.” 

She looked over at Anthony with a wordless you tell me . “You should come,” he assured her, feeling strangely insistent. He wanted her there. “I’m going stag, mostly as the chaperone. They’re going to drink too much and they’ll try and make their own cake and burn it. Would be nice to have someone fun to accompany that un-fun task.”

“ You can save a burnt cake?” 

“Probably not, but I can stop them from burning the house down too.” He grinned cockily. “Come. Please.” 

“Well, then. I’ll check my schedule.” And with that, and a pat on his shoulder, she was off.  

“Alright then, Kate solved your quarterly-whatever problem, so you can come fencing,” Ben said crisply as soon as she was out of sight, and Ant realized there was little room to maneuver. He nodded, letting Ben lead the way to the Kensington Club. 

To his brothers’ credit (and Anthony’s surprise), they waited until Anthony was sparring with Col — a better fencer, but Ben was a better interrogator, it was clearly planned — before mounting their ambush.

“Tell us, Ant,” Ben started casually, spinning his epee on the sidelines. “If you’re going stag to El and Fran’s birthday, but I was the one that invited Kate — does that count as arriving separately, and therefore you can end up at her place? Under the terms of The Agreement, and all?” 

He gritted his teeth, concentrated on Colin’s maneuvers. He had given his siblings a bare-bones overview of where things stood with Kate — simply to assure Daff that there were no miscommunications — and he was beginning to regret it. 

He was beginning to regret it a lot.

“Where I sleep on Thursday is none of your business,” Anthony sparred, guarding a lunge of Colin’s. 

“So yes,” Col summarized. “It would meet your terms.”  

“What about Daff and Si’s shower weekend?” Ben asked, still spinning the damn epee. “If Daff invites her, and you go solo — that should work. But then Daff has to assign her a bedroom —” 

“— Cos she couldn’t stay with you if she’s not your date —” Col supplied. 

“— And then Daff must cut a guest,” Ben mused. 

He had, in fact, been planning on asking Daff to invite Kate for the long weekend at Aubrey Hall.

“All to meet your terms of agreement,” Col added. “Also — did you two sign anything?” 

“Of course not, that’s ridiculous,” he finally growled, as Colin tagged him. He tapped out, letting Ben in. “Just because you’re questioning it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work for us. And you’re one to talk, Ben.” 

“ Is it working for you, though?” Ben asked, feet light on the mat.

“Yeah, how many other women have you gone out with, since Siena dumped you?” 

“Sixteen,” he replied. 

“And how many of those women have you slept with?” Col asked. 

He paused. “Just Kate,” he finally admitted.

And that, right there, was the circle that he could not square. He had never before had an issue with hopping between partners, or casually seeing many women in the same time period. Everyone was an adult, everyone used multiple forms of protection, the only true rule was just don’t embarrass yourself or your family . He’d abhorred exclusivity and entanglements.

Kate wasn’t an entanglement — they had all their lines extremely untangled — but she was … interesting, in a way that few women honestly were. She was fit and funny, but it was more than that. He liked her, liked many things about her: that she changed her name regularly in his phone from ‘The Legend’ to ‘Good Luck Sharma’ to, most recently, ‘Kate the Great’; that she couldn’t keep a poker face when in an unbearably boring conversation at at an event; that she carried curry powder in her bag to kick up food. He liked that she was good in bed; that none of their opinions aligned and he never knew hers ahead of time; that she had had to give the Hague a DNA sample in case she was blown to bits prosecuting war criminals. 

And all other women, the women he was supposed to be dating, were uninteresting in comparison. 

“Then what are you doing?” Ben asked, not unkindly.

It was a good question. 

He knew she was staunchly against relationships — but they were spending several nights a week together and he had a key to her house. And while her career was clearly important, she managed to work plenty of social and family time around the sixty-plus hours she worked weekly. He did not understand why, then, she was so insistent that she could not date, that she had no time or interest to date. 

Her perspective seemed clear, and he respected her enough to assume she knew her own mind. And he was similarly clear-eyed — it was time that he settled down, found a wife who could navigate the strictures of his life adroitly. It was a specific breed of woman, and he had known that when he decided to do this. She was not it; she would hate this. 

His desires were an unstoppable force; hers an immovable object. 

He wasn’t ready to give up what they had, though. He was pretty sure that this was simply newness — they had been friends for less than two months, after all. He was still dating, and it was just that none of the women he had gone out with were his future wife. 

Still, he was nothing if not bloodless in his goal orientation. He had every confidence he’d be able to find a wife under his current set up. But, if he couldn’t by the spring bank holiday, he knew he’d need to change up his approach. 

He’d give it until June, then, and if he hadn’t met a wife — then he and Kate would have to have a talk.

“I know what I’m doing,” he replied, though he knew it wasn’t an answer to Ben’s question.

Eloise took a large swig of a very nice Italian pinot, and stared critically at the bowl of icing. Poking it with a spatula, she called, “Oy, Fran? This looks right, right? Icing-y?” 

Fran came over from where she was mixing a pitcher of gin and tonic, and peered. “I think so? It’s very … goopy.” 

“Icing is goopy,” Pen affirmed, coming over her other shoulder. ‘Yes, I think that’s quite right. Maybe just, ah … another stir, perhaps?” 

Eloise took another gulp of wine. “Alright. It will be a delicious cake, then. Let’s do this!” Turning to Fran, El reached over and adjusted her tiara (one of Great Gran’s), which was falling into Fran’s curls. “Birthday twin, it’s time to get ourselves in Whistledown.” 

Fran cocked her head, with a sigh. “And have fun with our family and dear friends.” 

El looped one arm around each of their elbows. “That too, yes.” 

Pen squinted at the layers of cake. “The icing’ll … cover up the crusty bits, yeah?” 

Fran nodded solemnly. “Icing heals everything.” 

El and Fran had always done a joint birthday party. Eloise was not particularly sentimental, but the birthdays always felt a bit like a neat trick of nature, an affirmation of their bond. Tomorrow she would fly to Morocco to party, and Fran and John to Tenerife to hike, but tonight they were hosting a party that reflected both their preferences: Subversive and exclusive and fun , for El; classy and intimate and stylish for Fran. Mum had offered to rent out Ikoyi and Col a lounge at White’s, but this — ninety people (the guest list had grown, inevitable when it had nine contributors) around a single long table would be better than the most expensive and elaborate night out. 

Cooking sounded fun, but Daff talked them out of it; Bridgertons were useless in the kitchen. Instead dinner was seven courses from Yotam Ottolenghi, hired just for the night. Fran owned decorating: long blue tablecloths wound with silver thread; massive displays of flowers every five feet on the table; vintage candle holders everywhere. They’d layered chandeliers in the dining room — capiz balls, crystal-beaded, vintage white — and draped them heavily with even more flowers. Will Mondrich transformed the garden into a clubby tiki lounge for after dinner, and El could see flames tickling lanterns from the kitchen. Fran had insisted on complementary Chanel minidresses — El’s a narrow navy tuxedo dress with a plunging neckline and ten inches of thigh, Fran’s a softer blue, netting that descended into scattered paillettes and ostrich feathers and ended in a flared miniskirt — and tiaras out of Great-Granny’s collection to really get into the spirit. Mum hired the least-famous member of the recently-broken-up boy band, Only Way, to croon during cocktail hour in the front rooms where she hosted her annual Christmas Ball for Orphans. 

They’d also added plenty of homemade touches: garlands of Polaroids from over the years; stapled-paper party hats at each seat; hand-glittered name cards; favors full of personal jokes; a scavenger hunt through the house after dessert. And, of course, the cake, hopefully salvaged by Fran. 

But El would be lying if she didn’t feel a little complicated about the whole affair. On the one level , she liked all of the things that they’d selected, they were ridiculous and ironic and delightful and fun. On the other hand, she also liked that people like Cressy Cowper would never be caught dead having an ironically unironic birthday party like this — Daff had organized a hunt when she turned twenty-four. And yet she also knew that because she was a Bridgerton, everyone would think the party was cool and fun, whereas if Pen or someone else glittered their own namecards, people would snark and sniff around the choice. They’d be viewed as sad. El could be viewed as offbeat and interesting. 

She’d been a bit depressed, since Dora’s rejection. It was self-aware, to feel your feelings. Beyond the abruptness of a first heartbreak, the breakup stung in a particular way: She and D had stayed up talking so many nights, had split countless bottles of screwtop reds, had painted so many posters for so many protests. Dora understood the world she wanted to build, agreed with her that her family’s circle of generational acquaintances caused so many macro problems. Appreciated the ways El stood out, the way she stood up for her principles, to those people. 

And then Dora had said she was fake. 

She stabbed a finger in the bowl. Icing healed everything, indeed.

“You know, if Lady Whistledown writes about it, we’ll know she was here. Narrows it down, eh.” 

Pen frowned. “Or she knew someone here. Everybody here talks.” 

“Why do you care if our party makes a gossip Insta?” Fran asked skeptically. 

“Because I want to know, ” El responded. “It’s someone in our circles and they’re both very cool and very stupid.” 

Mum swanned in, glowing in a blue vintage Halston. Daff, in a Valentino minidress, was right behind her. “Table’s all set up, birthday girls,” Mum beamed, giving them both a kiss. “Now, Fran, I put your school friends among the Smith-Smythes. Ben invited some of his … fashion people, El, and I sprinkled them around your friends. Penelope, Marina is coming so you’re together. And I put Kate Sharma next to Lady Danbury and Sophie; I’m sure that they can find some artsy feminist text to discuss.” 

“Why not with Anthony? Or Ben?” Fran asked.

“Ben I put next to Cressy Cowper — he didn’t want to sit by Sophie. Anthony said Kate was a friend, so I put him with you two.” Mum assessed her three children shrewdly. “Alright, between Col bringing Marina, Ben acting strange about Sophie coming, and Ant inviting Kate… one of my daughters needs to fill me in on my sons’ dating lives.” 

Pen picked up her glass of champagne. “Well this feels like a family matter, Lady Violet, I’ll go check on Mr. Lonely Only Way.” 

“Nigel,” Fran supplied helpfully. 

Once Pen left, Daff smiled placatingly. “There’s nothing, Mama. They are all just carefree, happy —”

“— Evading responsibility,” Mum cut in.

“Colin’s young, Ben’s an artist and Ant has loads of responsibility,” Fran reasoned. 

“You know, I was heartened to hear Ant finally take this family seriously, and say he was planning to find a wife.” El could practically feel both her sisters bristle. “And now Miss Sharma keeps popping up at every event I go to. Are they dating? Does Anthony want to wed her?” 

Daff pursed her lips. “No, he doesn’t.” 

“Absolutely not, Lady Vi,” El snorted. It was their nickname for the most overbearing, annoying version of their mother — the society maven who interfered, gossiped, schemed, and, most importantly, embarrassed her children. 

“I think I should talk with her tonight.” Mum smiled, ignoring El’s pointed remark. 

“Or … maybe not,” Fran mused. 

“Definitely not,” El confirmed.

“She’s lovely,” Daff hummed, which was neither here nor there. 

“Very smart,” El agreed. “It’s nice to have another independent-minded woman around.” Truly, she quite liked Kate. And she suspected Anthony honestly did too — which made her like Anthony a bit more. Kate was certainly head and shoulders above any of the women he was actually dating. 

“Well, I either need to talk to her , or to him, because whatever is he doing if he is dating her but also on this godforsaken wife-hunt?” 

Luckily, Ben burst in then, serenading them with a dramatic Happy Birthday rendition, all kneeling and wild gestures; Fran turned back to the cake, Daff to the waitstaff, and somehow the party was up and running. Lonely Nigel was crooning, and Eloise was first swept up by law-school friends, and then by Col and Pen, which is probably how Mum’s ambush escaped her notice until everyone sat down. 

Lady Vi had rearranged the namecards. 

Anthony was still at the head, Fran and El flanking him, but now Pen was next to El and then Kate Sharma was next to Pen. John now sat in between Fran and Mum — who was directly across from Kate. Ant looked decidedly irritated, but said nothing. Ben, six seats down from El, sing-songed “that’s going to be a disaster” in her ear as he made his way to his chair. Daff, four from Mum, mouthed watch them to El and Fran. Simon took one look at the situation, and snorted, sipping his Scotch.

Kate, however, looked unperturbed in a neon-green Self Portrait lace minidress, laughing down the table with Si as she took her seat. Realizing how close she was to a birthday girl, she exclaimed, “El! Happy birthday, love. Has it been the best day?”

“Thank you,” she tipped the tiara, a diamond-and-sapphire circlet that she liked for its spiky art deco touches, with a wink. “It’s the one day a year when everyone listens to me so yes, it’s pretty great.” She laughed.

“This is bigger than I expected based on what Ben said,” Kate remarked.

“Yeah, well. I like partying and Fran likes parties.” It was clever so she smirked, hopeful Kate found it funny. She did laugh, which was incredibly heartening.

“I do, in fact, love a good party,” Fran smiled as she sat down. “Thank you for coming, Kate.” 

“So good to see you, Kate,” Mum said brightly, in her cut-glass Lady Vi voice. She swooped into her seat. “Looking forward to getting to know you. All of my children speak so highly of you.” 

Kate smiled blandly. “I speak highly of most of your children.” 

El really did mean to keep an eye on them, but then first course — two patties of chickpeas and cauliflower topped with pomegranate seeds — was served, and then the cucumber soup, and by the time Anthony gave his toast before the main, she was really too tipsy on her signature cocktail to pay attention. But as the lamb was being cleared away for the Mediterranean cheeses, she noticed that Mum and Kate were deep in conversation; for the first time, Kate looked uncomfortable. 

“Your own family — I know your sister is a tennis star. But what do your parents do?”

“My father was a cardiothoracic surgeon, and my stepmother, who’s raised me since I was six, was the headmistress at the primary school I attended. They’re both retired.” 

“That’s charming. And where do they come from?”

“Buckinghamshire. But my father was born in Delhi, my mother Chennai. My stepmother is from outside Baku.”

“What a cosmopolitan background,” Lady Vi said. Kate raised her eyebrow, unimpressed, and El could see Ant straining to hear. “And what is your own opinion on children?”   

“Relax, Mum, I said they weren’t getting married,” El groaned, voice unintentionally elevated due to the tequila. 

Of course, at that moment, the entire room silenced. Cressy Cowper turned her head, suddenly interested.

Fuck.  “I mean …” 

“No, what Eloise said is entirely true,” Kate replied, her placid expression not wavering. “And I think my opinion on children is that they’re lovely and I look forward to being an aunt to Edwina’s children, should she want children, but I’m not planning on having any of my own. Isn’t it great to live in the twenty-first century?” 

“It’s definitely great to have Formula 1,” Simon piped up, after a nudge from Daff. El mouthed thank you as Mum sat back and took a sip of her wine. 

“Beyonce,” Penelope added, cheersing just a  bit with her fork. 

“Queer rights.” Ben raised his glass, and the awkward moment was sufficiently over. Eloise slumped over, relieved. 

Ant leaned over, though, as she gnawed on a wedge of pecorino, hunching over her plate and trying to disappear. “So, El,” he murmured, voice low and light but also, completely threatening. “I have heard the last from you about your ex and that damned steak dinner, yeah?” 

“Yes, yes, I think that’s completely fair. Personally,” she said. Fran looked at her, shook her head, and sighed.

After Fran’s cake — miraculous — the party shifted to the backyard. Kate slipped out early, Anthony not far after; Ben and Sophie left separately. John and Fran headed out after what looked like a tense conversation. She should talk to Fran about that.

Daff, Col, Pen, and Simon, though, made it a fucking blast . At some point she headed up to her childhood bedroom and completely collapsed.  

The next morning, her phone was full of notifications, but there was one she wanted to check first. Sliding into Instagram, she saw the post almost immediately. 

On the grid: They say actions speak louder than words, and if that’s the case, it looks like Lord Bridgerton is both hopeless and off the market.  

They made it!

And also, Ant would kill her.

“I’m going to find you, Lady Whistledown,” she said to the empty room.

Anthony inhaled the nape of Kate’s neck deeply, fingers tapping on her stomach as she fumbled with the keys to her front door. What a long fucking night. 

“Can you just —” she started harshly, then sighed. “step back? Please. I can’t see the lock.” Wordlessly, he dropped his arms and moved. “ Thank you,” she said, clearly trying to sound civil. And failing.   

He was going to kill El. Mum too.

“Hey,” he said, when she finally opened the door and they made it into the foyer. He spun her around to kiss her; she still seemed irritated, but was receptive. “Can we just … forget that conversation ever happened?” he asked as he pulled away, cupping her face and running his fingers over her forehead, soothing her curls back. 

It was the wrong thing to say. “Why should we, when nobody else will?” she huffed, throwing down her keys and tossing the coat on the couch. The lime-green dress came back out — he really liked it — but then she threw her shoes down and started to march through the house. “I promise you, that scene will be on Whistledown tomorrow.” She threw up her hands for effect as she shouted. 

“It — no it will not ,” he said. “Can you just calm down? It’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big —” she sputtered, staring at him incredulously. “What exactly have you told your family about me?” 

“That we’re friends. You’ve been hanging out with them for weeks and not been mad at me.” He started to follow her pacing through the first floor — living room, dining room, kitchen — before she began to maniacally do the dishes.  

“Why didn’t you prepare me for tonight?” 

“What?” He poured her a glass of water; it seemed like she needed it. “Come on, you’ve known Ben for a decade; you and Daff went shopping last week; you’ve been out with Col and even Fran and El before. Hell, this was the third time you’ve met Mum! What did you want to be prepared for ? You’re a big girl, Kate.” 

“Is this all a joke to you and your lot?” she demanded, finally turning to look at him directly. 

“What can you possibly mean?” 

“I like being independent, I like my life, and I like having agency! But do you all just sit around and laugh, god, Ant’s “friend” Kate, what a career-minded spinster!’ —” she lapsed into an imitation of their accent — “at your garden parties and clubs and gallery openings!” . 

“Of course not, are you mad?” he asked. She was at all of those parties these days. “And who says spinster these days?” 

“Well, clearly you’ve said something to all your Tube-hating Society friends, otherwise your mother wouldn’t feel the need to ask me about children! Oh, and your sister saying we won’t get married — clearly you all talk about me during your damned Sunday brunch!” 

He stared at her. “What the bloody hell does the Tube have to do with anything?” He was finally yelling back.

“You live in one of the best cities for public transportation in the world and you’ve never taken the Tube! It’s fucking weird ,” she yelled back, and then finally deflated. When she spoke again, her regular solicitor tone — authoritative and a touch condescending, the one she brought out when they merely disagreed — was back. “I’m not going to be the butt of a joke, Ant.” 

“Look,” he said, “if anyone is, it’s me.”

“You are a Bridgerton. I am the girl stupid enough to be involved with you.” 

“Nobody thinks you’re stupid, and my siblings do not care that I am a Bridgerton.” He tried to keep his voice controlled; he didn’t think she, of all people, thought things like that. “They all are … vaguely aware … of the circumstances. And if anything, I’m the joke with them. Like always.”

Her eyes flickered with confusion. “Well, you shouldn’t be either.” 

“Believe me when I say everyone in my family thinks you’re too good for me.” He stepped closer, dragging his hands up her sides to get her to calm down. “Listen. I’m sorry Mum was rude and El was drunk. Eight siblings and it’s always a noisy time. But they don’t mean anything by it, nobody will remember tomorrow, they all quite like you, and will stay out of your business. So can we just …” He sighed. “Can we just go upstairs and have fun? Fuck this uncomfortable night out of our memories?” That was what this was supposed to be, fun — something that made him forget, versus wish for something he couldn’t have. “Please?” 

She still looked upset and he kissed her to make her less sad. She kissed him back, softly; nose sliding against his as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.  But then she pulled back, and he felt a mask go up.  

He was beginning to feel this frequently, honestly. There had been something essential about Kate the first time he met her; he could recognize the duty, the drive, even the danger — the edge of self-loathing, the denial, the martyr complex. But while his bent could be toward self-destruction, hers seemed to be toward control. Compartmentalization. 

Because for as much as he understood Kate, sensed she got, fundamentally, his jokes and his perspective and his values — plenty of her also felt inaccessible. The longer they were friends, the more glaring her blankness became. She had a tranquility that deflected most questions, including his mother’s this evening, but gaps were emerging: She rarely spoke of her dad except for matter-of-fact updates on his condition. She never mentioned Edwina, even though they talked all the time and Kate flew out to see her matches most weekends. She spoke of her stepmother fondly, and yet the woman also seemed to make no decisions regarding her own husband’s care. Kate never spoke of her time in New York, was clearly sexually voracious and experienced but never mentioned an ex or heartbreak — the list could go on. He had googled her but little came up; unsurprising given her career, he supposed. He could ask Ben, but he doubted Ben-at-uni would have remembered anybody else’s emotional or relationship status; asking Sophie felt like crossing far too many lines. 

So tonight’s outburst, her clear frustration, her snap back to calm — on the one hand, he wanted to ask her why. He was keen to push, learn  why El and his mother’s comments nettled her so much. He wanted to tell her they didn’t matter, because he knew how he felt about her and that wasn’t changing. Ask her why she didn’t want to be in a relationship, what about kids terrified her so. Hell, they frightened him , , and he wondered if the certainty of her position would help him carve out some clarity about his own. He wanted to compare notes, to debate, to plan, to know.

And on the other hand — such a conversation was fucking terrifying, and very much out of line with their terms. 

So he dodged, speaking before she could. Maneuvered the conversation away from the place that scared him, the place where he might lose her, or himself. “Listen, you don’t want a relationship.” He pressed into her, not letting her finish. He felt crazed with the desire to just keep her, to keep this exactly the way it was. If he pushed too far, he’d lose her; if he pulled too much, he’d lose her. He struggled for a balance. “You’ve said that. And my family — they’re too much, they drive everyone away. Always have. So let’s just … nothing’s changed.” 

“You know they love you, right? Like, adore you?” she said abruptly. “It feels like you just think you’re their checkbook for wedding flowers and Snapchat credits.” 

He stepped back, the fuck-until-we-forget plan no longer possible. He ran a finger under the band of his Patek, nail scratching over the inscription on the back: To Ed, the best man we could imagine — your Vi . “They like me fine,” he finally clipped out. “But the fact remains — I am not my father, and I have to be him, and I’m the reason he’s gone, so —  I’m tolerable.” 

“Wait — what? Your dad died of a bee sting.” 

He sighed. “Yeah. I’d been mad, he was going to miss a polo match — I yelled at him for it so he skipped his meeting. Afterwards, we were walking and talking —” about Ant’s plans, about his temper, about his cockiness, about it meant to be a man — “and he got stung. He knew he was allergic but he’d left the office so fast … he forgot his Epi-pen. It was, I dunno, all of three minutes?” He sighed. “Couldn’t even get help. Bet that wasn’t in whatever you googled.” 

She didn’t deny it, and let out a heavy breath. “Oh, Ant.” She reached out to scratch a nail behind his ears, her eyes and voice unbearably full of compassion. He looked away. “That’s why you have like five Epi-pens in your glove box.” 

“Gotta be prepared,” he said, voice devoid of emotion. “Anyways — they’re my family, and also, fuck what they say. We’re clear here, yeah?” 

She stared at him for a second, then nodded. “It’s been a long night,” she said. “I’m flying to Madrid early tomorrow, so we should go to bed. And, yeah. We’re clear.”  

Thank fuck. 

He dove into her as soon as they were upstairs, fingers running everywhere. No room between her skin and his. There was a frenzied, desperate energy clawing at him as he pushed her against her bedroom door. She stared straight at him, daring him to forget that night, daring him to make her forget. “God, you’re fucking exquisite ,” he groaned, hands going to her backside as she unzipped the dress, not breaking their kiss. It fell to the floor, revealing she hadn’t bothered with a bra, at a dinner with his entire family, and he worked his mouth down her chest reverently.

“Anthony,” she groaned, disintegrating with desire under him. “Ant, bed, now.” She loosened his tie but then tugged it, hard , jerking his neck to meet hers. “Or else.” 

He loved this, loved her power, the give and take, the way she chased her own pleasure so demandingly. 

He tried to drown in her, in the moment—not in his questions, his doubts. “I need you,” he confessed, mouth fixed on hers, before he even realized it.

Her eyes widened, panting. “You have me,” she promised. 

They slowed, drinking each other in, her hand sliding around his cock. Dark eyes met, and it was almost unbearable. He closed his eyes, pushed her to the bed, turned her around on her knees to lean against the headboard, slotted in behind her — one of her favorite positions but also one that removed eye contact, let him focus on the feel of her sliding back against him, her scent, the sounds she made. 

They made it another round before falling asleep, and when he woke up, she wasn’t there.

He wasn’t surprised — she was going to Madrid to watch Edwina; he knew this. She disappeared often in the early morning: for solitary runs, for Stuttgart, for Rome, always the Hague.

But usually, he woke up in a good mood after a night with Kate. Certainly, he’d hoped to forget their argument, so tense and close. But he remembered every word he said; every word he didn’t say. 

He woke up wary.  

And a little afraid.

Colin looked at the assembled group. “Guess one of our birthday girls couldn’t be bothered for brunch.” 

“Well after that thing with Mum, she did start doing tequila shots,” Fran pointed out. “Also, I only have an hour. We have to catch a flight to Tenerife.” 

“Same,” Daff said. “Another fitting and then a brand-ambassador call at noon. Do I want to do a sneakers partnership?” 

“You absolutely do,” Col said. 

“Yeah, I’ve only got a couple hours, too.” That was Pen. “I’m organizing a book party; it’s tonight. And actually … I got Lonely Nigel’s number and I think I may ask him to come.” 

Colin narrowed his eyes. “You know how pop stars act, right Pen?” 

“Like regular boys, I suspect,” she lobbed back coolly. “Where’s Marina this morning?” 

He straightened. “Well then. Sounds like you all have lives to get to, then. What else do we need to cover?” 

“I don’t think anything comes close to El and Mum and Kate, honestly, and what’s there to say?” Daff asked. “But do you have other things to discuss, Colin?” Daff and Simon had left earlyish — too old, Daff had claimed when they sloughed off. Nevermind she was almost two years younger than him. 

“Hmmmm,” he flailed, “I did see Cressy Cowper try to hit on Benedict.” 

“Sure, if that’s interesting,” Daff said, with a little ironic eye-roll. “I think it’s also OK if we have actual things to talk about. Like, I was asked to be a patron of a baby bank. I’m not sure if I should though.” 

“Ooooh no, everyone would think you’re knocked up. But what about like, an animal shelter or something?” Fran asked. 

Col sighed, sitting back. Charting Daff’s continued social rise was just not what he wanted to do on a clear Friday morning — he wanted to drink mimosas and then maybe go to the park and have a joint and play Frisbee. So he just quietly sipped his drink and ate his frites as the girls discussed Daff’s potential charitable ventures. He knew it was a source of stress for her; at the same time, she was about to get married, was the oldest daughter, and had a stable income stream. He thought she was doing pretty good, considering.  

Soon enough both Daff and Fran headed out, Fran practically skipping toward her flight and her birthday trip with John. Pen smiled at him, a bit formal, as soon as it was the two of them. “You quite alright, Colin?” she asked, a little timid. 

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Peachy.” 

“What’re you up to for the rest of the day?” 

“Oh, uh. I don’t know. I was thinking of going to the park. Wanna go?” 

“I have to work,” she reminded him. 

Everyone always had things. “Maybe I’ll text Freddie.” But the one downside of having the spare as your best friend was that he was usually pretty busy.

“You could go into the office, maybe? If you’re bored?”

“Eh. There’s honestly not a lot for me to do there,” he confessed. It stung sometimes — Anthony was so good at the corporate world of the Bridgerton Group, and nobody trusted Col to open a spreadsheet. 

“Well, you can … do whatever you want! You’re a Bridgerton.” 

“That’s true.” He pondered.

She shifted. “What do you want to do, then?” 

“What?” Nobody had ever asked him. 

“Like, Ben wants to create art, and Eloise wants to save the world from capitalism, and Fran wants to compose the next big thing … what do you want to do?” she asked, then faded. “You don’t have to answer that. I mean, I have no idea what I want to do …” 

“No, no, don’t be like that, Pen, it’s a good question,” he said. He thought about it. “I like having a good time. You know, experiencing things. And I like when others have a good time. Not like, a crazy party. Though that’s fun. But I just … I like when other people like things and are having fun.” He looked at her. “Is that really an answer though?” 

“I think so!” she chirped. “And it’s totally true. And you’re really good at it, too! Everyone has fun when they go out with you, and you throw great parties. And when you were traveling, you always had the best stories, and you brought people along with them. And, you know, you’re a great friend, a good brother.” 

“I thought Anthony would like, let me open nightclubs, though,” he explained. “That’s why I came back.” 

“I mean … you also are out with me at 11 AM on a Friday,” she pointed out. “Ant’s always going to have your back, though. I bet if you had a really good idea, and you really showed him you were serious, had a plan and everything, he’d back you.”

“You think?” 

“Of course he would,” she insisted. “You just have to have a great plan.” 

He nodded, thinking. “Alright,” he stood. “I”m gonna talk to Mondrich. I’ve got an idea. Pen, you’re just the best.” 

She beamed.

Anthony was wrapping up an early breakfast with Simon when he got the text: John broke up with me. All men suck.

He texted back they most definitely do and looked up at Simon — the two of them had gotten in a five-mile run before heading to White’s for a greasy English breakfast, and his best friend was rumpled in bike shorts, basketball shorts and a Yale sweatshirt. “I think I gotta get to Fran,” he said. “She just got dumped.” 

“Didn’t they just land from that vacation yesterday?” Simon asked. 

“Yeah, and it’s either me or Eloise talking to her, and one of those isn’t going to result in jail time.” 

He pulled a face. “Tell her men suck.” 

“Already did. Are you coming to Hy’s football match later?”

“Bridge, I am marrying into your family with eyes open. But I’m not going to a 15-year-old’s football match unless Daff threatens to withhold —”

“Got it.” He held up a hand. “I’ll see you at Nick’s for dinner then.” 

He texted Eleanor Westchester to bail on their fourth date that afternoon — feeding the ducks in Hyde Park; utterly inane — and ubered over to the Notting Hill townhouse. Eloise opened the door, casual in a cropped t-shirt and linen overalls. He still wasn’t thrilled with her over last week’s dinner, and she looked like she knew it. Holding up a hand, she said, “I told her that love was overrated and that you’d agree with me, but she’s in the sitting room if you want to talk to her.” 

He rolled his eyes and pushed in. “Do you have to consistently be so unhelpful, El?” 

Fran was normally the most composed of them all: She was calm, self-possessed, always had a quiet sureness to her. She was the child closest to their father in baseline personality, though she was much more reserved and serious than Edmund had been. Col, of all of them, had inherited Ed’s lightness. But Fran’s fierceness, the depth of her feelings, her ability to just give herself over to love without worrying about losing her sense of self — that was all Edmund. Just as Col and Daff shared their mother’s sociability and likability, Ben and El shared an arch outsider’s view, and Greg and Hy the camaraderie that came from being the babies of the gang  — he and Fran shared their sense of total commitment. And that’s why he knew, watching her bawl helplessly on the couch, that this was his problem and not El’s to solve. 

“I’ve just been giving her water and tissues,” Pen said serenely. “But she’s been incoherent for at least an hour.” Gently, she stroked Fran’s back. 

“Alright, Fran,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Get your shoes on and let’s go walking.” 

“I’m never! Leaving! This house!” she sobbed. “John lives in Shepherd’s Bush. I could see him.” 

He crouched to wipe some tears away, gently thumbing at her face. Her signature red lip and cat-eye makeup — which he’d seen her in daily since she was seventeen — were absolutely smeared, and he dabbed to try and make it less bad. She quieted under his machinations. “And if he sees you, he’ll regret dumping you,” he said. “Instantly. Now, come. You need air. Or you’ll start to smell.” 

“That’s right, that’s what happened to El after Dora,” Pen pointed out. 

“I bathed eventually,” El snarked from the door. 

He managed to bundle her out the door in a bear hug, throwing a cashmere coat over her Bella Freud sweater and her Golden Goose trainers. It took three blocks but her breathing finally evened and calmed. She sniffed, and then pulled away from his embrace, just a bit. The late-April day was sunny and bright; it reminded Anthony of Saturdays at Hyde Park kicking a rugby ball with his dad when he was small. Edmund had always tossed him, his arm strong under Ant’s armpits, and he thought of that feeling as he rubbed Fran’s back. 

Between locals and the American and Chinese tourists, the market was packed; he steered Fran toward a dosa stand to grab food since he was starving. After they took a seat on a bench, she munched on the mutton curry dosa. “This is pretty spicy,” she remarked. Her voice was finally tear-free, but she was still puffy and pale. 

“Really?” He hadn’t noticed, and took a bite to test. “So. Tell me about John. Did this happen in Tenerife?” John and Fran had been together since their first week at uni; Ant honestly expected the two of them to be the next Bridgerton wedding. John was a bit of a goof, honestly, but Fran was steady, and it kept them steady. They were young, but it was a mature relationship. Ant wasn’t sure if Fran had ever even mentioned a fight before. 

She sighed, picking at the dosa. “No. Right when we got back, though. I wish he’d just told me before the trip.” 

“Yeah, he’s a bellend. Did he say anything?” 

She sighed and looked away, distressed. “It’s so stupid, Ant. He said … he said he loved me too much. That he was young, and he knew that if he stayed with me, we’d get married and … and have babies and …. And just be, together .” She started to cry again. “And he didn’t think that was right! He said it wasn’t good for either of us to settle down so young. So he said he was doing me a favor.” 

For fuck’s sake. He was going to have the prick murdered. “I am going to call Kate and have him jailed, alright?” He settled on a lesser threat.

She laughed. “I just …. It’s always been so easy , with John. We don’t fight. We laugh a lot, we go biking, we roast chicken for dinner. He doesn’t care if I get lost in some translation or work, I don’t care if he has to visit another World War Two museum on vacation. It felt so settled , Ant.” She sniffed, and peered at him. “And then I was thinking, though — if he loved me too much, how was it so easy to just break up with me? We didn’t fight or put up a fight. Was that love? And then I started thinking — should my ideal love just be pleasant? It sounds so lame.”

He sighed. It sounded perfectly nice to him, honestly. “You’d probably have to ask Daff or Mum, they’re sort of the family authorities on what love should feel like.” 

“That’s why I don’t trust them. Too starry-eyed.” He laughed. “But shouldn’t you … want to fight for the person you love? He didn’t put up much of a fight.” Honestly, to Ant, it kind of sounded like he ran from it. 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I guess … Mother always said Dad was her dearest friend. if you looked ahead, five, ten years, did you want to be with John? Were you excited about what you guys would get up to, even the fights you’d have and the kitchens you’d paint? Or was it just … going along with something good?” 

“I … I don’t know,” she finally said, tucking dusty auburn hair behind her ear. “I never really gave it a lot of thought. It just was all … pleasant. Lovely, really. He’s so nice.” Her voice was teary. “I do miss that.” She sniffed. “Sometimes … you know. I get lonely in this big family. And he never made me feel lonely.” 

Ant empathized. “Well, I’d say, you gotta calm down and if you think about it some, and it’s something that you want — something that you want to fight for, not something that you fight to feel … then maybe you call him. But also, Fran, he’s a twenty-three-year-old boy. We’re all total shit at that age, OK?” She laughed. “You have time. Loads of it. It sucks now but you’ve got it.” 

She nodded, thinking. They stood, and started to walk again. After a while, she ventured, “For you, then, with marriage  … if you look five, ten years out, is that the relationship you want? Excitement about painting kitchens with your best friend, and all that?” 

He sighed. “Fran, this isn’t about me.” 

“How’m I supposed to take your advice if you don’t? That’s not a great vote of confidence in your advice.”

He laughed, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice for his sister’s sake. “What I want ten years out is different. What I want most is to be there for you all — Hy will barely be older than you, she’ll be twenty five. And running Bridgerton Group, keeping up our family’s legacy. And those are the things I want the most, and, you know, that I have a duty to do. So I want to fulfill that, and that’s the main place where I want to spend energy on. Outside of that, what helps there? Sure, a wife, some children. But  the important thing to me is the family I have .”

She stared at him, unimpressed, an eyebrow raised. “I think you should listen to your own advice, Ant.”  

“I think you’re way smarter than me, and so are more likely to take my advice.”

”Still, you can be an important thing too.”

His stomach clenched, just barely. “Oooh, look at those necklaces, aren’t they nice? Come on, Julia Roberts tells me retail therapy is a part of every breakup.” She rolled her eyes, recognizing his attempts at distraction, and followed along. 

He bought her a pair of earrings too, and then a nice painting and a ceramic bowl. He threw in an antique writing pad that he knew Eloise would like as a peace offering. Next, he bought ice cream, and Fran finally cracked a smile as they headed out of the market. 

“So if you’re looking ten years out, brother, and what you want is … Bridgerton Group and some wife and your siblings, which is super lame by the way …” Fran started, “Then what exactly is Kate? Someone you want for now? Should I find a fling next?” 

“You absolutely should not,” he said firmly, and she laughed. “No, Kate is … ” Hard to describe. ‘Want’ seemed tawdry and inadequate, and she certainly wasn’t a fling. She was a challenge, a flirt, a confidante. She was honestly beginning to feel like something he needed to do, to experience and get out of his system. Perhaps a trial run of sorts? “Kate is a friend,” he finally said. “That’s all. People can be in your life for phases, or reasons, and you can just … be grateful that they are.” 

Fran nodded. He could tell she was contemplating John. “Well, for what it’s worth. I like this phase of you. You seem happy when she’s around. And … lighter, I guess.”   

He sighed. “That’s all well and good. But Fran, if you’re looking for lessons — we’re not the same, us two.” 

“That’s right,” she agreed. “I just … what if it’s OK to want different things, for yourself? Or more than one thing, at the same time? Like right now, I want to be with John and also I feel like I could never see him again.”  She sighed  “I feel like I want everything, different things, all at once.” 

He smiled wryly. “Wanting contradictory  things for yourself? That’s just … adulthood, Fran. Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it’s great, figuring out how it all goes together. You can’t get everything, of course. Some things don’t go as planned.” His mouth twisted upward. You were lucky if you got some things, but it wasn’t worth breaking his baby sister’s heart like that. “At least you have your own bedtime.” 

“It still feels important, though, to know what you want. I mean, yes … you don’t always get what you want. But I think you should try for that, especially about love and the people in your life. What else do you have, if you don’t do that?” 

“You have yourself.” He shrugged. “At the end of the day that’s all you have.” 

He meant it a bit pessimistically, but she didn’t take it that way. She nodded. “That’s true, and that’s quite a lot. I think it’s all about whether or not you’re brave enough to know what you want.” 

He cocked his head, no longer sure Fran was talking about her derpy ex, as they walked back up to her house. “I’d say you’re pretty brave, then, Fran.” 

“I think you can be pretty brave, too,” she responded, and they walked up the stairs together. 

Chapter Text

“ I guess when you're young, you just believe there'll be many people with whom you'll connect with. Later in life, you realize it only happens a few times.” “And you can screw it up, you know. Misconnect.” — Before Sunset

Kate Sharma had zero fucking clue what the hell she was doing. 

Sure, she was killing it at work (though killing herself, billing almost fifty hours weekly at a Magic Circle firm). 

But as a sister, she was close to losing it. She spent every weekend at Edwina’s tournaments (also almost killing herself with the airfare and lost sleep time), but  Edwina hadn’t made it to a semifinals, and was usually losing in straight sets. The tournaments were tuneups that only diehards were watching, but it was hard to keep Edwina in a good state of mind. 

As a daughter, she felt increasingly out of her depth. She’d made the last two doctors appointments with her father — but the neurologist didn’t take her feedback that he should develop a more aggressive treatment plan.

And as a friend she was barely hanging on — Soph was being extremely moody about Ben, and it was all Kate could do not to snap at her. 

Because she had her own Bridgerton to deal with. And she specifically had zero fucking clue what to do with him. 

As she had predicted, Whistledown had been at El and Fran’s party, and ran a blind about Anthony no longer acting single. Any of the thirty people who heard El’s comment could have passed it along or posted it; while it didn’t mention her, it was sufficiently tantalizing to pique interest from a broader audience. Four nights after the party, as they exited Soho House with Si, Daff, Ben, Nick, and a couple of their Eton friends, there’d been cameras waiting for them. She assumed someone had tipped off the photogs to Nick’s presence; she was extremely surprised to hear them shout “ Lord Bridgerton!” He’d instinctively grabbed her hand, and they had their picture. 

Once published Ant was perfectly upbeat but distant — mostly worried about her, reminding her that this was the ‘cage’ of his life, insisting that it would blow over and the best thing was to do nothing. She agreed but she could tell he was mad; she wished he would say something to her. Instead if she brought it up — she was being stubborn, she needed to let things go. He was pretending and he wasn’t picking up on her discomfort, but she also wasn’t sure what else she could do or say without starting a fight. After all, this was supposed to be fun, not heavy. 

Except it wasn’t fun anymore, not really. Not with everything simmering with her family, pressing into her time and space. Not with his family’s overwhelming presence, impossible to untangle. Not since he suggested they shouldn’t go out too often. Not since it became increasingly clear that he wasn’t really dating other women — when would he have the time ? Not since they started spending just as many nights on her couch watching TV and working and eating takeout as they did at events. 

Tonight’s event was on her turf, and she would honestly rather be at her house, hiding from the world with him. She was exhausted . The Voices for Justice gala was the largest fundraiser for the Human Rights Watch all year, and her practice at Allen & Overy had purchased three tables as part of its £300,000 donation — meaning that several of her colleagues, as well as their clients and spouses, were there. Additionally, half of Society had turned out since it was hosted at the Roundhouse: She spied Daff, Soph, Soph’s nepotism-model sisters, and several others new to her orbit floating around. Daff at least seemed to go annually; this year, Bridgerton Group had impulsively bought a table, and Ant, his mother, and Colin were somewhere in the room, too. She’d been mad, not glad, when he announced this. This was her career, not some perfume party for him to pick up someone Moderately Eligible, and he just assumed she would enjoy him there. 

So, she was miffed. She was miffed before she was late, miffed before she had to change into her Art Deco-beaded Reem Acra cocktail dress in the fluorescent lighting of the law-firm locker room. She barely made it to the silent-auction cocktail hour — with her hair a rat’s nest — before Daff had insisted on a photo on the way in, gallantly offering to put the photo with a donate link on Instagram. She tried to smile; Daff was trying. 

The professional obligations only brought additional stress. When she went out with Ant or Soph or the Assorted Bridgersibs, she really only had to talk to them and it was easy because nobody cared about her; a serious-minded fundraiser with people who recognized her professionally, who wanted her to kiss their ass or wanted to kiss her ass — that was on an entirely more demanding level. People there had definitely seen the pictures on the Internet: at one point, she heard someone say, “That’s the girl dating Anthony Bridgerton. I swear if Violet isn’t careful she’s going to end up with a Benetton ad instead of a Christmas card.” 

She couldn’t find the bar quickly enough. 

Between the dinner and the awards portion, Ant found her — still sitting with all her work colleagues — and tried to slide an arm around her waist. “Touch me right now and you will never touch me again,” she managed to grit out, blinking at him very very quickly. He swerved into a handshake.

She turned toward the three partners she was seated with. “Steve, Hugh, Gwen — I’d like you to meet Lord Anthony Bridgerton, president of Bridgerton-Britain, a real estate firm and subsidiary of the Bridgerton Group.” 

“Oh, I recognize you,” Steve’s wife Melinda said. “You two are dating, aren’t you? I saw in the Mail — how wonderful.” Melinda was a fucking chemistry professor, why was she reading the Mail ? 

Steve — a ranking partner making more than a million pounds pre-bonus annually, who held her career in his palms — burst out laughing. “I didn’t take you for a gold-digger, Kate!” 

Put simply, she wanted to die. 

Anthony was smart enough to make himself scarce, but now she was wandering around the edges of the sloppy dance party trying to look busy. She scanned the silent auctions: a boat (went for £1,500,000), a week at a Swiss chalet ( £800,000), a cooking class with Mary Cherry (£60,000). 

“See anything interesting?” A voice asked behind her.

She turned and smiled at Tom Dorset. “The baking class, but I’m afraid it would be a complete waste of money on me.” She smirked. “How are you liking tonight’s festivities?” 

“They’re humbling, certainly,” he replied. “The group I work with was one of the featured honorees. Huge for them. And some good donor-hunting here tonight.” 

“I probably work with many of your targets,” she said, trying for light. At his confusion, she explained, “I work at A&O, one of the presenting sponsors. My practice is Business & Human Rights — we handle everything from anti-corruption, public law, immigration and refugee law, human rights … really the gamut for our clients. Then, we all take on pro bono work.” Like her Sudanese military-officials case.  

“Oh, I forgot that. I’d love to take you out for a drink sometime and learn more about the work you all are doing. Or at least how to play up our work for donors. I’m total shit at it.” 

It was clearly a proposition, but — fuck it. She was not dating Anthony, and going on dates with other people was explicitly allowed . And, she was intrigued by Dorset — their backgrounds were more similar than hers was to Ant’s, and he had known her father, before all this. “Sure, that’d be fun. Do you have my number, actually, it’s —”

“There you are.” Ant swooped in from her left. She glared at him. He was not subtle. At all. 

“Yes, just making plans with Tom to talk about how he can build relationships with some of my firm’s partners,” she smiled. 

“Don’t worry, I have your number from the youth-homelessness fundraiser.” She didn’t even remember that gala, or giving him her number. “I’ll shoot you a note and we’ll get that drink.” He nodded at Anthony. “Bridgerton.” 

“Have a nice evening, Tom.” He smiled as Dorset ambled off. 

She turned to stare at him. “Do you have to be an arsehole? Or is this, like, a choice?” she hissed. 

“Oh, Kate, good, I thought you might have left,” Daff popped up on her other side. How were there so many Bridgertons? “Want to grab a drink with me?” 

“I’m happy to get you both something,” Ant said.

“No, that’s quite alright, we’re both feminists — Kate, let’s grab something fruity.” With that, Daff linked her arm around Kate’s and started dragging her to a bar. 

“Are we … plotting something?” she asked, so very tired and confused. 

“Sort of,” Daff smiled at someone passing. “I wanted to invite you to Aubrey Hall for our pre-wedding festivities, but I wanted to do so away from Anthony — I know things are … well I don’t know how things are, which means they’re complicated. But I consider you a friend, and I wanted to just stress that I want you there, not just in the context of … Anthony.” 

“Pre-wedding festivities?” she asked.

“Oh, Ant hasn’t mentioned? Instead of doing a hen party, we’re just all going down to Aubrey Hall for several days up to the bank holiday. It’s a small group, from Wednesday to Saturday — pre-party really, mostly family. It’s outside Canterbury.” Kate suppressed a snort; she wasn’t sure this family knew the definition of a small party.  “And then Saturday through Monday morning it’ll be about one-fifty, two hundred.” 

The bank holiday was the last weekend in May, which was — “I’m actually going to Paris that Sunday. Roland Garros is starting.” 

“Well then, just come from Wednesday to Sunday morning. We can have a car take you to St. Pancras in time for your train.” 

Oh. She was invited to the “small, pre-party, mostly-family portion” as well. 

She pondered. She’d have to take a couple extra days off of work. She’d been missing a lot lately. And god only knew how she felt about Ant at any given moment. 

But it sounded like a holiday — France wouldn’t exactly be fun — and, assuming none of the Bridgertons were Whistledown, Anthony would be relatively (for him) unguarded. So it would be fun, actual fun, and she needed actual fun. 

“I’ll have to check around at work but hopefully yes,” she said. “When would you have to know for room counts and such?” 

“Oh I just assumed you’d be with Ant. Should I not?” Daff seemed genuinely contrite. 

“Oh. Well. Let me think, I guess. I mean … sure. Why not?” 

“You let me know, of course no pressure.” Daff squeezed her arm. “Oh I’m just so excited. You’re going to slaughter Ant at Pall Mall.” 

“What?” 

“You’ll see!” Daff laughed and was gone. 

She picked up her phone to text Anthony and ask him what Pall Mall was when she noticed she had a message from him: I’m beat and went home. Thought leaving separately was a good idea. Don’t worry have my key xA. 

She was going to kill him. 

Sure enough, he was set up in front of her telly with his laptop and on a call, Edwina’s match already queued up and paused at the beginning. He was talking to someone in the Beijing office, the English sprinkled with his medium-proficient Mandarin. She changed, poured them both Scotches, and sat down while he finished the call. 

“Hey,” he said when he finally hung up.

“Hey there,” she replied. “You just … decided to go home ?” 

He stilled at her freighted wording. “I mean … we were gonna end up here, so I figured, what was the problem? Do you want to watch Edwina?” He signaled to the television. 

She sipped her Scotch. “Sure. In a sec.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “You were kind of an arse to Tom tonight.”

He snorted. “ Tom is kind of an arse. I’ve never trusted the guy, not even at Oxford. Trust me, I’m your friend, I’m watching out for you.”

She was so, so tired of that term, but she was also not going to fight about it right now. “Sure. Anyways. I also talked to Daff.” 

“Oh?”

“She invited me to this long weekend she’s hosting at Aubrey Hall? Leading up to the bank holiday. Honestly it sounded like she expects me to beat you at some game —” 

“— Oh that’s rubbish, I will kick your arse at Pall Mall,” he interjected. 

“ What ?” 

“You need to be there to truly understand the glory that is Pall Mall,” he said solemnly, but with a sparkle in his eye. He pulled her onto his lap, nose warm against hers, hands big around her waist, and she couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss him.

God he was so infuriating and attractive. 

“Anyways.” She pulled away. “It seems like a family thing?”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean, I wanted to invite you. I just .. hadn’t talked to Daff. So. Please come. It’s loads more fun with you there.” His eyes were focused on her chest, his hands kept moving up and around her ribcage, ghosting the line of her breasts, keeping her just on the edge of distraction.

“Sure, if that’s good with you. She did … it seems like part of it open?”

“Yeah, it’s just us and they’re having a ball Saturday night and a shower Sunday. A brunch on Monday I think. She’s ordered catering for three hundred.” These people and their loose understanding of guest lists. 

“OK. She assumed that we would be sharing your room?”

He shrugged, and she ran her fingers through his hair, tugging his eyes up to make eye contact. “It feels more efficient, she needs the room. I’m fine with you staying in the family wing.” 

She stared at him. “I think that’s fine according to our terms, I just … you know we don’t have to, with your Moderately Eligible Wife hunt, yeah? I’m fine staying in some former servant’s quarters.” 

“Not sure we can touch those honestly, that’s where the Knightsbridge people film. No, it’s … fine. I appreciate you asking, though.” 

She assumed this was some sort of aristo hack of his; this ability to minimize a problem into nothingness. His willingness to depersonalize, diminish and deflect was curious, given how argumentative and competitive he was. It didn’t feel like gaslighting , exactly, since she truly believed he didn’t mean any harm, but it felt deep-seated. Normal people wished away their problems; Anthony, with all his resources and privileges, seemed to actually be capable of making them go away, and it all started with this framing. 

He didn’t apply this strategy to everything, and there was something sad about the times he did. She remembered him saying once that work was the only place where he had value, and moments like this — moments like his they like me fine remark about his family — brought her back to that comment. 

And it all left her just wondering. 

She sighed. “OK, then, I’d love to come,” she said. He smiled, and started the DVR he’d queued up. She settled next to him, curling into his chest and typing some emails on her phone as she peered at the groundstroke warm-ups. 

It didn’t feel settled, though — any more than the Tom Dorset comment felt settled, or their fight after El and Fran’s party. It, in fact, like most things about him, felt un settled. Exactly the opposite of what their agreement, their clear lines, were supposed to bring.

Because the truth was — which she was still feeling around the edges of — he vexed her. It was really the only word she could come up with for the deep, disorienting discombobulation she felt. He flummoxed her to the point of confusion, even irritation. Part of it was how often his opinions were just wrong, and how easily he goaded her into telling him that. Part of it was the smug and oblivious poshness. Part of it was the competitiveness and the need to be right. Part of it was the delight he took in trying to get the better of her, to flap her normally unflappable self. And yes, part of it was the great, enthusiastic sex. 

But all of those were turn-ons, and ones that she had felt and delighted in previously, in ones or twos if not quite the whole Anthony Bridgerton package. She’d always been attracted to cocky blokes, to men who liked being put in their place, to men who could keep her entertained and were on her level. That was part of the fun. 

No, the deeper, harder thing to wrestle with — when she was with him, laughing with him, arguing with him, fucking him, watching Edwina’s games with him — there were foundational parts of her life and her plans that suddenly didn’t quite make sense. For the last decade, she’d carefully built a life that honored all of her responsibilities as the oldest, high-achieving, responsible daughter of a high-expectations immigrant father with a chronic illness — while carving out a space that was all hers , an life and future of her own making, for as long as that was possible. It was independent, occasionally rootless but always present and purposeful — she’d woven between friends and lovers, hobbies and continents, work and play, pretty seamlessly. She had a precise place for everything, a plan for everything, and he both fit into none of those places and simultaneously ran over all of them. 

Take kids. And marriage. Long ago, almost as soon as they found out Appa’s PD was heritable: she had realized she didn’t need them. It was not so much that she knew she would inherit the disease — though she knew how likely it was, particularly as genetic research accelerated — but more she wanted to eliminate any risks or surprises or burdens that could arise. She did not want to be both caring for children as well as an ill parent at the same time, but she also did want to know for sure if she did have the gene, to wonder if every nervous tremor was the start of her decline, but she also did not want complications out of her control. She preferred clarity, had perfected an ability to carve it out of the most tenuous circumstances through her profession. She had not even considered being a mother, or marrying, when she had streamlined those choices, their attendant uncertainty and additional responsibilities, from her life. And she’d never reconsidered. 

She wasn’t reconsidering any of those decisions, but she was trying to remember why she’d made those — easy — choices to begin with. Her choices had simply been water she swam in for years, but they were present, suddenly, next to him and her on the edge of a party, alone in the middle of a group of friends, on the inside of an in-joke. 

She was aware of them because things that had felt definitively not her taste suddenly felt less bad. She didn’t like the photographers but getting photographed hadn’t changed anything; Ant’s reaction had. She found benefits pretentious but she liked making eye contact with him during the speeches when someone said something ridiculous. She didn’t like people in her space but she didn’t mind finding him here. Sometimes those realizations made her even want more, when she had been sure, for years, that what she had was more than enough. It felt wild, and reckless — this un-knowing. The possibilities and what-ifs. The lick of wanting a flame in her stomach. 

She didn’t care to examine it too closely though. Feelings passed, and the best course of action through tumult was always to remain steady, to press on with determination and a little bit of stubbornness. She knew she’d get to the other side. She did not make rash decisions, she did not waste time spinning inefficiently, she did not allow things to simply happen to her. She’d sort herself out. She always had. 

She was just surprised it was taking so long.

“I needed that,” Sophie practically moaned, twisting her back, which felt better than it had in days. “Goodness. What a cracking class.” 

“I mean, I feel fucking fantastic, but at what cost?” Kate replied. She definitely looked a little worse for the wear; crop-top sweaty and her hair matted. “Hot yoga is the most masochistic workout. And a total bastardization of my culture.”

Sophie took a long swig from her Hydro Flask, still feeling the aerobic euphoria. “I just feel so lean and strong after.” 

“You are literally half-model, it does not take much for you to look or feel lean,” Kate grumbled, but it was light teasing. “Come on, want to get an iced coffee and some sprouty avo toast? Continue the virtuous healthy kick?”

“Sounds good,” Sophie said with a grin. It was only nine AM on a Saturday; she had skipped Ben’s Salon last night — she had skipped it most of the last ten Fridays — and slept well, felt really refreshed. “What do you have planned for the rest of the day? Oh gosh — I thought you were in Rome for Edwina’s matches?” 

“Leaving tonight at 10 tonight. I need to finish a brief on an immigration case, read some depos for a human trafficking case.” Kate shrugged. “It’s crazy-season at work. And then I think I need to shop for this Aubrey Hall trip. Can you help, are you free this afternoon?” 

“Of course. Only a Bridgerton would throw a ball for their wedding shower.” Sophie had found the absolute chicest bubblegum-pink Schiaparelli for Saturday’s party.

“Daff sent me the itinerary, it’s so much. The three dinners are ‘fun fancy-dress,’ Pall Mall is ‘light garden party,’ the shoot is ‘tweedy summer casual’, the shower on Sunday is ‘elevated garden party,’ the brunch on Monday is ‘hangover chic’ and this ball — my god. ‘Love-forward formal.’ Does that mean we all wear pink and red? Even the ‘spa morning’ on Saturday has a dress code! ‘Luxury comfort!’” 

Sophie’s draw dropped. “Wait. Katie. You’re going to their pre-party thing?” Ooooh, this was good . 

“I mean, yes? Daff invited me. I assumed you’d be going? She said it was small, but this family has no conception of a small party.” 

Which was true, except — “When the Bridgertons want to keep it tight, they keep it tight,” Sophie explained. She had never even considered trying to convince Ben to bring her — and she didn’t really want to come, especially if it wasn’t his idea. “Think about those Sunday brunches. They’re like the pope’s conclaves.” 

“Fuck. I’m sorry for bringing it up.” 

“Oh gosh, don’t be, sweetie.” Sophie shook her head. “Don’t be. I’m more interested in Anthony inviting you.” 

“You really don’t care about Ben?” Kate deflected.  

“I mean … I’m not going to beg for an invitation.”  He’d get bored, sardonic, antsy if she guilted him into anything. She didn’t want to be his babysitter or apologist, and demands would do that. “I’ll be down Saturday morning for the ball and brunch.” She knew Kate planned to leave early, though, for Edwina.

“Have you — talked to him?” Kate’s voice was soft, her eyes too kind.

The sympathy made Sophie want to snort. 

Sophie sighed, and tried to articulate something that just wouldn’t make sense to someone as sensible and black-and-white as Kate. She ached for more with Ben — she loved him, more than she liked to admit. And she just knew Ben, in a marrow-deep way, one that, like he espoused, did transcend any relationship definitions. She knew him as well as she knew the scar on the back of her hand; the brushstrokes of the Renaissance masters. She always would. “That’s not what we are. That’s not who Ben is. Ben’s … like water.” She shrugged. She wasn’t angry, and she could tell that that was Kate’s concern — that Kate had somehow stepped over Sophie, that this invitation was something coveted and not something cursed. No, Sophie was more … sad, because she wasn’t particularly sad any longer. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Constant and constantly moving. Can’t be contained unless he wants to.” 

“But have you talked to him? Laid out your case?” 

Soph sighed. She loved Kate, she really did, but Kate both did not understand the art world and artists (which she knew and didn’t care about), and she definitely did not understand society (which she didn’t know, but thought she did). There were abundant signs that she was in far too deep with Anthony, and this would end badly. They were too similar, too intense, too close, too delusional. She either genuinely thought she had things ‘under control’ — her favorite phrase — or she was pretending. Both were Not Good. 

And yet she had the audacity to give Soph advice. It was wild. “When did every conversation we have start circling the Bridgerton men?” Sophie tried to counter.

“So no, you haven’t.” Kate’s tone was a touch judgy. 

She thought about her declaration in his studio, about how distant he’d been since. “I don’t need to. Have you talked to Surly Anthony about why he lent you his Jag this morning?” Sophie parried back. She had been legitimately shocked to see Kate drive up to yoga in that toy. 

At least, at last, she blushed. “I was running late. It was faster.” 

“Running late due to a morning shag, I’m sure.” Sophie snorted. Kate’s silence confirmed it. “No, Ben has made it clear he prefers something unconventional, or at least … doesn’t want more definition. He’s also a straight-up libertine, borderline a hedonist. He’s not built the way you are, craving stability. Hell, I’m not sure I’m built for something conventional, but I want something constant.”

“You don’t have to be conventional if you don’t want to.”

“Katie. I know. And Ben … can sit still and commit to something, but only if he wants to, pushing him on it isn’t going to get him there any faster.” It just … wasn’t in his worldview. He was an artist, he was a lost little boy, he was not-straight in a very straight society — he had a different north star and different values that drove his relationships and actions, that helped him get through the day.

Kate was quiet. “You know — if you want something more permanent, you deserve it. Don’t let your shitty parents make you think you don’t.”

“And don’t let your family make you think you don’t, either.” She smiled, as Kate twirled a sprout in her fingers. Her parents’ selfishness and inattention had led to Ben being a necessity for so long, but she really did feel like she was slowly moving beyond that. Or that she wanted to, which was perhaps the first step. “Listen. I’m not sitting around and waiting, like some Cinderella with a glass slipper, OK? I’m really loving my job, I’m really loving my friends, I’m really focusing on the things that I love in life. That’s not waiting.” It ached, it sucked, it felt like growing up, because she did wish it were easier, that she could just slip into a life with Ben — but she just doubted that was truly realistic.

“You sure?” Kate asked. “Because this measured adult perspective feels brand-new. Great, but also new.” 

“I mean, who wants to be grown-up about things?” She rolled her eyes. “If setting a trash can on fire would help, I would.” She pushed some egg yolk around her plate before continuing, trying to lay her thoughts and emotions into coherency. “Would I like it if Ben … could see that something committed isn’t incompatible with an interesting or unexpected life? Yes. But if he doesn’t, and I do — that means he’s not the guy for me. The last ten years worked for me. They’re not a sunk cost. I’ve loved every minute I’ve spent with him; I’ll always love him. If you love someone, let them go.” She truly did feel this way, she thought. “Anyways. Please do not worry about me. I am more worried about you.” Daff inviting Kate to her smaller soirée made it clear to Sophie that Daff also had questions, and wanted to see them interact.

“Why? Everything is —”

“Under control?” Sophie raised her eyebrow. “I know that. I know you’re Katie, and everything always is under control, because that’s your thing. But you are … Katie. This is the most I’ve seen you hang out with a guy? And if you don’t want a settled-down life, and he wants to marry some Moderately Eligible woman … I am worried about you, a little, at the end of all this.” 

Kate shifted, twisting a napkin, bright and busy, with a massive shake of her head. If Sophie didn’t know her so well, she would have bought it. So, she was pretending. She knew she was in over her head. “Oh, there’s no need — I could cut tomorrow and be absolutely fine. We could take the Jag and run, what do you think?” 

Sophie laughed. “Ant would chase you down, he loves that car too much.” And, Soph honestly suspected — her friend. Ant was lovely when he wasn’t being surly or serious, but he had a petulant, posh streak that made him possessive, and it was coming out more and more about Kate. She decided not to press too much though — what would it do but make Kate turn the situation back around on her? “Alright, neutral ground. Let’s talk about your wardrobe for your three days with the Bridgertons.”

“Sounds good. One more thing: Do you know what the hell Pall Mall is?” 

Sophie laughed. “Oh god, I am so not wading into that one.” 

They ended up at Harrods and she pulled together the capsule wardrobe that Kate would need for four days at Aubrey Hall, found things in colors and fabrics that helped her stand out: the most gorgeous jumpsuit, a Shoshanna dress for Pall Mall; Zimmermann shorts, a Milly tweed minidress for the hunt, a sleek red Elie Saab with cleverly draped side cutouts for the ball. Kate rolled her eyes at the total, but hugged her tightly before skipping back to the Jag.

Sophie’s phone rang the second she was out of the Tube. Guilia Romano, her onetime boss from her very first London job, who had taught her so much about herself and the art world. She had returned to Italy five years ago to become an artist herself, and while they grabbed pasta whenever Sophie made it to Italy, they didn’t always keep in touch well, so it was a fucking fantastic surprise. Her day was looking even better, and she did a little happy shimmy as she picked up the call

“Guilia! Come va, mi sei mancato !”

“Sophia! How are you? I am so well. I was just thinking of you and had to call.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, absolutely. How would you feel about a job in Milan? I have the most marvelous opportunity for you…”

“Hey there, Kate.” The voice was genial and surprisingly soft behind her. 

She turned, the notepad sliding off her lap. “Simon!” she exclaimed. The man of the weekend was dressed casually, in an Oliver Spencer blazer, Rag & Bone jeans, and what she could only assume were very expensive trainers. 

“Having a good time?” he asked with a light, knowing smile. 

“I—yes,” she replied. She and Anthony had driven out in his Jag that morning. Ant spent most of the drive regaling her with tales about growing up at Aubrey Hall: Col and Daff turning cartwheels on the flowers; sneaking out with Ben to drink at the pub in the village; the girls all throwing puppet shows and demanding undivided attention. He was lighter in the country air, as she suspected. “Just—“

“Bridger-burned out?” He quirked an eyebrow. 

“Something like that.” She laughed. True to Sophie’s prediction, Daff and Si had kept the first part of the weekend genuinely small, the first time she’d ever seen anyone in the family contain a guest list: Just the eight siblings, plus Simon, Kate, and Pen (Kate wasn’t sure why Pen came); Nick and Bex, who brought the baby, a nanny, and a security phalanx that mostly stayed out of sight; four additional friends of Daff’s, one who brought a serious boyfriend; and two footballer friends of Simon’s, one of whom was dating one of Daff’s friends. 

Twenty-one people total. It should have felt less claustrophobic than an event like the HCR gala, but somehow it was too tight, too intimate already. Looking at Ant was like staring into the sun, and Sophie’s warnings still rang in her ears. 

In the four hours since they arrived, the group had elevenses, an arrival lunch, and a feisty Newlywed game — the theme of the weekend seemed to be Ridiculous Competitions, which she adored — and a brief detour to file a motion on deadline. She knew she truly must be out of sorts if she was still restless after that, so she grabbed her notepad and escaped to the lake, hoping to brace herself for the rest of the weekend.

“I get it. Remind me to show you some of my hiding places.” He sat down next to her. “I didn’t know you were an artist.” 

“Oh I’m not really,” she replied. “Just something I liked to do once — watercolors actually are my favorite, I didn’t bring mine.” She tilted the sketchbook toward him, the outlines of the house visible. Kate suspected, given its Knightsbridge Manor fame, Aubrey Hall was probably one of the most recognizable buildings in Britain, and today it looked perfect: soft undulating stone, creeping vines, rollicking gardens, a brilliant cornflower-blue sky behind it all. “I remember this place being a little imposing when Ben threw parties here in college, but now it’s almost … cozy?” 

“I mean, you’re a year ahead of Colin —” Honestly, that felt hard to believe — “so it’s probably been what? Almost ten years since Ben brought you here?” 

“Probably,” she conceded.

“Yeah, that was probably smack in the middle of Ant’s grand plans.” 

“His what?” She cocked her head. This felt like a new story.

Simon grabbed a dandelion and twirled it in her nose. “His grand plan. When Ed died … Ed was an absolutely fantastic dad, the kindest gent you’d ever meet. And Ant, Daff, Ben all of them, totally revere him. My dad was a bit of a bastard, so I get it. But Ed was only decent with money. Yeah, they’re peers, and it’s not like they were ever poor. Or even upper-class.” He snorted. “I think there was probably 120 million pounds when he died, only about sixty million of which was liquid. It’s a huge problem with our kind, we’re shit at managing money.” 

“That’s plenty of money,” Kate pointed out. She was not middle-class, she had never been middle-class, and these people’s lackadaisical attitudes toward money still shocked her. 

“Not if you have eight kids and a 500-year legacy to maintain,” Simon pointed out. “The property had gone to total shit, I remember coming here for Christmas holidays one year and a roof leak taking out a big fir tree Lady Vi put in the foyer.” 

“It’s gorgeous now.” They’d walked through it earlier on their way to Ant’s — the viscount’s suite, four rooms in the east wing overlooking the front lawn — and the house literally looked like a TV show set. 

“Yeah, because of Ant. So, Ed dies, Ant’s the only witness, he’s a fucking mess. Violet’s pregnant with Hy, we’re four weeks from our A-levels, and the solicitors point out the house needs fifty million in repair. But if they do that, between the eight kids and the lack of liquidity, everyone would be getting under five mil, unless they sold the house. Which again, not anything to sniff at —” 

“— But not what they were used to, or anything that would keep the family going for more than one generation.” 

“Exactly. Me? I couldn’t give a fuck about the Hastings title. But Anthony? Takes being the sixteenth Viscount Bridgerton seriously. That’s his dad’s name, you know.” 

“Right,” she said, because she did. “I thought the money was in the Bridgerton Group?” 

“He’s the beneficial owner but not the legal owner. He can’t just sell the Bridge if he wants, you know? The firm is worth about 40B. The family is worth fifteen billion or so from that. But in terms of what they can access tomorrow if they wanted — much less. And the firm stays rich by not breaking up the funds, so it was either bankrupt the company or bankrupt the family.” 

“Got it,” she said, because she did. Ant would accept neither of those options, she knew. 

“Anyways, so he teaches himself all about historical preservation, stocks, everything. He gets the house a Grade 1 rating, he gets government grants to help with the repairs, he comes up with the plan to open it up for tours and to start all the programming they run here.” 

“Programming?” 

“Lady Vi loves the arts — she was a ballerina when she and Ed met and she got pregnant. Ant was almost an actual bastard in addition to being a bastard, you know?” 

“I … didn’t,” she admitted, pieces literally clicking into place.

“Yeah, so Vi was, I don’t know, twenty-two, they had this whirlwind love-at-first-sight thing, she got pregnant, they got married in Greece. She gives up ballet to raise the kids. But she loves dance, so Ant gets an idea. Makes a deal to start a performance space, split the profits, host some exhibits, you know, stuff like that. And then he starts renting it out for filming, Knightsbridge comes along. So suddenly, the house is making them 50,000 quid a day, can you believe? Twenty million a year in licensing, filming rights, and tours. And at the same time, he’s figuring out how to invest, at Oxford and then LSE. And over the last fifteen years, the estate’s gone from 120, most illiquid, to 600 million.” 

“So who’s getting what?” 

“Free and clear, fifty million from the estate to do what they want, whenever they turn 30 or get married. Each child any of them have will get 10 million. And then everyone has an allowance based off the dividends from their trusts — a billion each, of the 15B — for the rest of their life. The principal can’t be inherited, and they have no say on the investments, but everyone should be able to grow a nice pot for any kids from that.” Kate did the math on trusts and realized the ‘allowances’ were at least twenty-five million annually. “If they want a house or an apartment, Ant will cover. I’m not sure any of them except for Ant knows how it all works.” 

Simon shook his head before continuing. “I split as soon as we graduated, headed to Yale to escape. My family’s an actual piece of work. And Ant fucked up a lot — hell, he showed up to Hy’s christening drunk and puked on Prince Dick’s shoes. He can be a bastard but he’s brilliant and he’s stubborn and he’s loyal, you do have to hand it to him.” 

She smiled, but mostly she fixated on the image of Anthony, eighteen and trying to finish Upper Sixth as he learned about historical designations. Anthony, skipping his gap year to take care of the family and then spending his first year at Oxford learning about the stock market. Anthony, applying to LSE as he negotiated the Knightsbridge contract. It didn’t feel that far off from when she had memorized neurology terms at eighteen to go to doctor’s appointments, or taken over the family accounts the next year because Mum was “hopeless at sums,” or spent her senior year applying for as many medical trials as she did law programs. At least Appa was still around; Ant had nobody.

It made her ache, for that lost, lonely teenager. 

She appraised Simon. “Why are you telling me all this?” 

He shrugged, twirling another dandelion. “Just glad you made the trip. If anyone can beat Bridgerton at Pall Mall, I think it’s you. Nick and I are hopeless at this damned game.” 

She stood, laughing. She was glad she made the trip, too. “There is no way this game will live up to the hype you’ve all given it.” 

“Oh it will,” he promised. “I’m gonna stay here; you heading back?” 

“Yeah,” she said with a nod. “Good talk.” 

She wandered up to the veranda and was too lost in thought to notice that El was there — dressed casually in a crop top and jeans, clearly waiting for Kate to come by. She smiled, too close to just casually head toward another entrance. “Eloise,” she greeted her. “Having fun so far?” 

“About as much as I possibly could when celebrating an archaic heteronormative institution like marriage,” El said, but her smile was wide and the jibe was light. Kate liked El, found her earnest underneath the piercings and the hair dye and the ironic Alice in Wonderland forearm tattoo and all the spirit and sarcasm. “But there’s charades tonight and Ben’s on my team, so we’ll wipe the floor with you all.” 

“Is there anything that your lot doesn't turn into a competition?” 

“There are eight of us,” El pointed out. “Anyways. I … wanted to apologize. For my comment at the birthday party. My mother can be nosy, and Ant always shuts her down. Which she hates, so she finds new ways in. We’d already told her to back off, and Daff and Ben told me I had to handle it. And, you know. Tequila happened.” 

Kate snorted, just a little. “You did take the piss out of her.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” El lobbed back smoothly, clearly proud of herself. “But — I don’t know what your deal with Ant is, exactly, but Cressy Cowper didn’t need to know either. Probably to Ant’s surprise, none of us are plotting to run you out of town.” 

She cocked her head. “Why would he think that?”

El flailed. “He’s … he’s our brother. And we love him, we do, he’s just awfully harsh sometimes. He never relaxes, never takes a break, always impatient, always on the edge of his temper. So we all push back — well, everyone but Fran — since that’s the only thing he respects.” 

“Is that why you’re … always telling him that he’s an oppressor of the masses?” 

“Technically, I said that he represented a legacy of oppression. And he does.” 

“As do you,” Kate pointed out. This girl was the sole beneficiary of a billion-dollar trust, it was ridiculous. “You are in law school, yes?” 

Eloise brightened. “Yes, actually, but I’m not going to be a solicitor, I want to be an advocate and work on dismantling —” 

“Why do you want to get the degree, then?”

“Well, probably for similar reasons as you. It’s an important field.” 

“It is. But that’s not why I went into it. My amma —” Kate hesitated — “my birth mother  — she was from a very poor family in Chennai. My father’s family had been in the Brahmin caste, had been ministers and landowners going back to the Mughals, and then very influential in the Raj. My mother’s family was not. Her parents worked in hospitality; she was the second daughter but smarter so they decided to send her to high school. She became a doctor, immigrated here, met my father, married. She died when I was four.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

“Thank you. But her family — they were all still in Chennai. Her grandparents had worked in the mills, but her parents had climbed up a bit — her mother was a home-health aide, and her father managed a little Irani cafe. But their extended family still worked in textiles. And when I was thirteen, one of the factories, which had sent the workers home just the day before due to a large crack in the wall, collapsed. My mother’s two cousins, and three of their children, were killed. Their bodies were never recovered.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“The paper trail made it clear, the conglomerate that owned the factory — there were many layers of corruption and denial of basic working conditions. There were also no laws to hold them accountable. But now, there are such laws. When it happens again, there will be consequences.” 

“Well, that’s all good then.” 

“My point — when you study law, and you commit to working within the system, you commit to improving things concretely. It is very easy to stand outside, to throw rocks and declare that change must happen. And I certainly think that’s necessary, at some points. But creating that change is harder. It’s slower. It’s less glamorous. But it’s more lasting. And what do all the rock-throwers want to do? Change things on the inside.” 

El squirmed, just a bit. “That’s very true.” 

Kate tried to think about how to phrase the next part compassionately before continuing. “You’ve been blessed with privilege beyond measure, and the resources to boot. It seems … that makes you uncomfortable. You’re clearly a mile ahead of your class. I just hope that one day you’re able to see all the good that those resources paired with that big brain can do.” She smiled. “But maybe be a little kinder to your brother in the meantime?” 

El looked thoughtful, for the first time since Kate had met her. Finally she nodded, inhaling deeply, and said, “I’m very glad you’re here, Kate.” 

“Me too,” she responded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in dire need of a cup of chai.” 

El nodded, letting her go, and Kate walked in quickly, exhaling. She felt even less rested than when she’d ambled out to the lake. The Bridgertons were exhausting.

The late-May night was stickier than Daff had expected, and she had to assume that was a contributing factor to her insomnia. After all, they’d had a lovely first day at Aubrey Hall, just a group of the people she truly wanted to celebrate with. It was so nice to have all her siblings together, plus her best friends — truly wonderful.

But she was bright-eyed and buzzy, as if she’d had one of Eloise’s Red Bull digestifs, long after everyone else had gone to bed. Simon snored peacefully beside her, which irritated her even more.

So she shoved his shoulder until he started to stir: “I can’t sleep,” she explained.

“Get one of those, what do you call them — fucking weighted blankets,” he grumbled. “Some of us aren’t naturally gorgeous. We need our beauty sleep.” 

“I already said I’d marry you and love you forever.” She tickled under his ribs. “Come on, let’s get some crisps and watch the telly or something.” 

He stood up and yawned, hands big on her shoulders. “Lead the way, m’lady. Just don’t expect me to stay awake.”  

Everyone was sleeping so they padded downstairs, through front rooms recognizable to half of Europe and North America, through the performance hall Anthony had built. Through immense parlors that now were more likely to see underprivileged kids there for a drama workshop than ladies who lunched. The house was such a layered picture of everything that had sustained her ancestors for four hundred years, had sustained this community for four hundred years, and likely would for four hundred more.

Only, she thought, as she grabbed Walker’s and dip from the main pantry — not her family or community. Only Ant’s family — with whatever Moderately Eligible woman he married — would live here. Her children’s children would live at and inherit Clyvedon, Simon’s imposing, equally old home. Mostly abandoned, certainly not a hub for the Yorkshire community.

“Today was a good day, huh.” Simon yawned as they dropped into a couch in the upstairs family room. Earlier that evening, Greg had massacred them in Charades. “I talked to Kate, like you asked. She’s a goner.” 

“Oh?” Daff had needed details, but she knew that she was too obvious an interrogator — so she’d enlisted her affable life partner. He’d been grouchy but she knew he would do as she asked. 

“Totally. She seems … good for him. I hope she and Anthony know what they’re doing.”  

“They don’t.” She clucked darkly. “At least, personally.” It was a little bit of a disaster to watch Ant all moony like this. Though, as Ben, El and Col put it — deeply entertaining. It was a pity because she quite liked Kate and it was clear to Daff that Ant did as well. And she seemed … good for him? “Professionally, Kate is … extremely competent.” Which seemed part of the appeal.

“Sure, all solicitors are,” Simon said agreeably. “I’m very grateful my solicitor is extremely competent.” Simon was a tech investor who focused on environmental conservation through early-stage startups. It seemed to be part advocacy, part tech, part investment, part strategy — she didn’t quite get it, but it seemed important and he liked it well enough.. Though he did seem to be growing increasingly frustrated about it. 

She sighed. She was getting frustrated, too. She was very good at what she did, she knew, and she thought her partnerships and presence was as much of a business as Ant or Ben’s work — and they pulled in just as much income, thank you very much. But she was the first to recognize it was all a bit … impermanent.

That had felt all well and good while her presence was getting established, when she and Simon had needed the time to figure themselves out, but it felt a little too easy now, a plane on autopilot. It felt easy, and Bridgertons relished the challenge.

Nowadays, Daff caught Kate’s slight eyebrow raise when she had offered to put a fundraising link on her instagram; heard Ant’s huff of impatience whenever she had to cut an evening short for a photoshoot; saw El’s smirk when she mentioned a sponsorship contract. Even Ben could get snotty about her new Sephora line or the latest gala. She found their responses to be typical Oxford arrogance, and she hardly wanted to do anything as stodgy as real estate or law, but the fact remained: she needed a project. The wedding was wrapping up soon, and her life as a married woman was beginning. 

It was only beginning to dawn on her how vast and wonderful and real the project of marriage would be, the pieces of her future shifting into position, driving her forward with determination. She had only been thinking about how happy it would make it, to spend her life with Si. Now, she was beginning to see how much better of a person the challenge was going to make her, how Simon inspired and drove her, how comforted and safe having someone who got her perspective, her sense of humor, her values could be. Simon made her brave and confident, and she wanted to rule society and channel it as a force for good. She knew she could do and be more with him in her corner. 

“You OK?” Simon asked, as they settled onto the couch. “Besides the insomnia that you’re forcing on me?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking about what comes after the wedding.” 

“A lifetime of great sex and a happily ever after?” Si asked with a yawn. 

She elbowed him, feeling a bit bad for waking him. “Yes, and ...” she sighed, trying to articulate. “I’d like to do something, you know? The way Ant did the performing arts center here, or Ben makes art, or even Kate with her pro bono work. I’d like us both to do things.”

He nodded. “I mean, I have … my job. And football team. You have … all your causes, and things.” He frowned.

“Maybe. But those are for other people. A dinner for the Chelsea Letters Society is the same as the one for the Homeless Youth Empowerment Project.” She flashed back, briefly, to a horrifying conversation with Freddie’s father, Prince Dick: about all the charities she would need to adopt if they wed. She was nineteen, Freddie was an awful boyfriend, and she felt, very acutely, that her life would not be in her control. She would have a thousand patronages and not remember a single good deed. “I want something singular.” She wanted something she could be known for; the world felt expansive, and possible, and powerful. She didn’t want to settle into mediocrity, discuriosity. She felt too young for all of that. At the same time, she didn’t know where to go next, and the options felt a bit overwhelming. She sighed. “Maybe we should renovate Clyvedon.” 

Simon stiffened. “You know I wouldn’t mind if we sold that heap.” 

She did know that. Simon was potentially the most reluctant duke the peerage had ever seen. She understood; the ribbon of loss had tied them together since her childhood. Different types , of course, but when she was ten and her father died, Simon — then just her older brother’s roommate, nothing romantic, that would be disgusting — was the only person she knew with a dead parent. Clyvedon represented so much of that loss to him: of his father, then his mother; of his childhood when he was forced to live there.  

And then of course there was the snobbery and snottiness of London society; it made him tight and impatient and he’d spent years sidestepping the whole roadshow. She knew if it weren’t for her family, he would suggest they live in California or Johannesburg, away from memories and snobs and expectations. She took his love and trust seriously. “What do you see life as, then?”

“Living in London, most of the time. Traveling a lot. Investing in these businesses, helping turn the tide on some of these issues.” See, he had a plan, to leave a good mark on the world. “But like, that’s just a job.” She did wonder if he was beginning to sour on it. “Eventually you, me, a couple of kids. A lot of laughter. And good sex.” He tightened an arm around her. “I’m not kidding. After — after everything, I want a happily ever after with you.”  

She climbed onto his lap then, thighs bracketing his, slid forward to tug at his lower lip before soothing him with a kiss. His hands moved over her bum, slid her more tightly into him. “You’ve got it,” she promised. And they would figure out the rest later, together, she was sure of it. Slipping a hand under his shirt, she smirked, “That can even start right now.” 

Daff’s last thought, as he eagerly dove for her, was that her insomnia wouldn’t wake the entire  house.

It took until Thursday dinner for Kate to realize what the hell she was doing, the realization coming slowly and then all at once. 

Wednesday night’s Charades had ended with an arm wrestling match between Bex, Duchess of Clarence and future Queen, and Gregory Bridgerton, trash-talking teenager. They’d all stayed up so late Kate had nearly fallen asleep on Ben’s shoulder. The next morning, Thursday, she and Ant had what she could only describe as a lie-in — they slept in until seven, had a slow round of sex — sliding legs and wandering hands and soft lips that just even morphed into him lazily thrusting into her from behind, hand on her breast as she grasped his hair and tugged him closer. With no rigs or river they’d gone for an early-morning run, and then had a long breakfast with Greg, Hy, and Fran. The youngest two especially she rarely interacted with — Hy was finishing Fourth Form, Greg Lower Sixth, and Kate got the impression that Daff had arranged this weekend partly to ensure they felt included among the adult siblings; as an older sister, Kate found it thoughtful. Gregory and Hyacinth were sarcastic and delightful, looser with Ant than the middle four; they all must have spent two hours at the table, others drifting in and out, before heading out to an afternoon drinking around the outdoor pool. 

At some point El and one of Daff’s friends, Lady Maritzia (a Swedish countess that Daff had done a Chilean gap year with) decided to play tennis on the lawn court; Kate climbed into the chair and pretended to be a judge, wildly swinging a G&T around as she shouted out foot fault . Everyone spent the day hyping up the ridiculous Pall Mall, which she was inferring was some sort of to-the-death lawn game: the Bridgertons all deeply enthusiastic; the other guests ready to walk into the village to avoid the tradition.  

And tonight, they were having one of the ‘fun fancy’-dress dinners. ‘Fun fancy’ meant the formal rules the Bridgertons normally loved were thrown out ( total anarchy, for the Bridgertons , Bex had observed). Anthony sat at the head, but Simon at the foot; Daff, in a glittering gold dress by the Vampire’s Wife, by his side — if Violet was there, Fran explained, she would have clucked at the couple of the hour sitting next to each other. Kate, who had donned a strapless orange jumpsuit by Rodarte with massive mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, sat next to Anthony. Fran, in a sparkly Mankarian and a red lip, was across from her, and Hy, borrowing one of Daff’s old Chanel party dresses, sat next to Kate. Bex, who was a fucking delight, was next to Fran, and in Valentino. The wine was flowing; the conversation was bubblier than the champagne. 

Ant, who wore light pants with his shirtsleeves rolled up and collar popped wide, was merry and magnetic, mercilessly roasting Nick, Simon, and Ben for something that happened at Eton — “they’ve been arguing about this for twelve years, I think they’ve all claimed to have stolen the lectern,” Bex sighed — when Kate’s realization hit. 

She was enjoying herself. Deeply. Unthinkingly. 

She liked this. These people. This conversation. This place, this night. This man, this version of this man especially. She didn’t feel like an outsider, or an observer — she felt the cozy hug of belonging. She was having fun; she could live inside these feelings indefinitely.

“Speech,” Col roared, his voice guttural, pounding a fist on the table. It took Penelope tinkling her glass and turning up the table for Kate to realize that they wanted Ant, not Simon or Daphne, to say anything. The fact that the entryway featured his crest designed into marble (and CGI-ed out of Knightsbridge ) outranked the fact that it was their nuptials. 

He shook his head as the claps and chants, including from Daff and Simon, increased, and Kate patted his shoulder as he stood with a groan. 

“Alright, alright,” he laughed. “Am I speaking as the brother of the bride or the best man?” 

“Um, you know that’s me, and I can order you thrown in the Tower if you try and take it,” Nick joked. 

“Still his best mate, but brother of the bride it is,” Anthony quipped. “Well first of all, Si, I am obligated to point out that I know a guy who can throw you in the Tower if you hurt my sister.” 

“Didn’t you use that line when you punched him?” Colin asked. 

“No, he threatened to use Nick’s PPOs on me,” Simon corrected, and the table laughed. 

“You punched Si?” Hy asked, scandalized and delighted. 

“Yes, and I will do the same if any tossers come around for you,” Ant replied with a wink. 

“You know this is incredibly draconian,” Daff called down the table. 

“Truly I feel myself going back in time,” El retorted. “Stop before you eliminate my gay rights.” 

“You know, I trust you to handle any tossers all on your own, you are an extremely capable young woman,” Kate said to Hy, very seriously, and the young teen laughed. 

“OK, this is my toast, I was requested, I would like it back,” Ant said. “We good?” 

“For now,” Ben yelled. 

“You need to get on with it,” Fran advised. 

“Clearly. Well, first of all — Si and Daff, threats aside, ridiculous flower walls aside, I think I speak for all assembled Bridgetons when I say we’re delighted for this excuse to come out to Aubrey Hall and spend time together. It’s been incredibly special; the only thing that will make it better is trouncing both of you in Pall Mall —” Lady Maritzia lobbed a roll down the table at Ant as all non-Bridgertons groaned in protest — “but in all seriousness, a weekend out here — Si, it’s been twenty years since I started considering you a brother, and a few months before it’s official, but there’s no better way to welcome a new Bridgerton into the fold than a raucous around of Pall Mall. You both have taken us all on a journey these past couple years, and at the same time, that journey is really beginning. It’s hard, sometimes, to step back and think about how special you both are, how special this relationship and marriage will be, and you pulled together a perfect way for this core group to acknowledge and celebrate that specialness. You two recognized with lightning speed what you had, and you’ve been fighting for it ever since. This weekend’s party will be for your guests and the wedding — I mean honestly, that’s for Mother — but this week is for you. I speak for all of us when I say I hope you feel that, that care and appreciation and love.” 

There were a couple awwws and claps; Col and Greg puckered their lips into kisses as Si pressed a kiss to Daff’s temple and Nick raised a glass. Ant, pleased with his toast, flicked his eyes down affectionately to Kate, and she suddenly stopped laughing, filled with dread.Nobody else noticed; the raucous party continued. She felt like hyperventilating.  

“And of course, this isn’t just Bridgertons. The rest of you, here, you’re a part of Daff and Si’s extended circle, you’ve been here with them, you’re making this celebration even better. Kate —” He made eye contact, his brown eyes liquid and affection and close. Too familiar. She had no idea what he was going to say, but she knew instinctively that it would ruin the moment, ruin the careful facade, the agreement, everything that let her enjoy this special moment so much. 

There was too much truth in his eyes. 

She froze at the warmth, suddenly ice-cold and unable to breathe. She gasped, literally catching herself from getting carried away. The possibility of what he could say was sudden, and bracing, and positively terrifying. She tried to shake her head as imperceptibly as possible; he was attuned to her — of course he was — and suddenly he faltered. Lost confidence and his train of thought. “Uh. And Maritzia, and Pen, Nick, Bex, Edo, Cici, Max, Isabelle, Sybil, Tim, Amelia — thank you all for coming. To Daff and Si!” 

“To Daff and Si!” everyone chorused, and Kate quickly put down her drink, practically dropping it on the cloth as she  turned back to the cheesecake. Ant sat down, staring at his plate as well. 

“Good toast,” she finally said to him. Her voice felt funny. The moment was still too close; she couldn’t stop thinking about what he might have said. 

“Thanks,” he said, a little formal and stiff. He looked closed-off, suddenly leaned down to talk to Sybil about her grandmother’s health. 

The only way out was down, she reminded herself. Because where could all of this go, but away?

Anything else was impossible. 

Chapter Text

“If he cannot perceive her regard, he’s a fool.” “We are all fools in love” — Pride and Prejudice, 2005.

“Where is Kate, we said to be on the lawn at a quarter ten,” Eloise huffed. She looked ridiculous in shortalls over a sports bra, and Ant quelled an urge to tell her to go change. In the distance, Ben and Daff were still staking in the wickets. Every year they designed new challenges; this year, he could already see one on the other side of a small stream leading into the lake, and a second in the middle of their mother’s beloved tulips. Twenty yards away, the non-Bridgertons languished on blankets under a canopy. Ant smiled at Penelope Featherington playing peek-a-boo with Princess Georgina, a loaf in her dad’s arm. Behind them, staff came in and out of the house, prepping for tomorrow’s ball. 

“Edwina called just as we were heading out, she’ll be down,” Ant explained. But he was keyed up too; he had been waiting weeks to kick Sharma’s arse at Pall Mall and of course Edwina, in France for the Open, called to monopolize Kate for forty minutes. 

“Can we pick mallets at least?” Col asked. 

“Absolutely not, and touch the black one and die.” At Col’s raised eyebrow, he explained, “Well, we have to explain the game to her.” 

“Are you sure she’ll like it?” Hy asked. “They don’t.” She pointed to the onlookers. 

“They’re idiots,” Greg said. 

“That’s not kind,” Ant corrected. “But yes, Hy, they’re idiots.”

“Alright, I have the Pimms,” Simon announced as he carefully frog-walked an open keg. He looked exceptionally glum about what was to come, even though it was his formal initiation to the family. 

Fran followed Si, arms laden with cups and a carton of beers. “Where’s Kate?” 

“She’s —”

“— Here,” Kate said, hurriedly walking toward them. He squinted at her, she looked flustered. Very good for his Pall Mall record, but also sort of worrying. He thought about asking what was up, but before he could, she tossed her phone lightly on the ground next to El’s bag. “Alright, Bridgertons. Explain this global phenomenon.” She seemed light again, and he felt himself relax.

Daff and Ben wandered back, the ten-wicket course finally set to their liking. “Pall Mall is less about the game, more about how it’s played,” Daff explained. “A poor player just plays the course.” 

“You can use your turn to advance your ball, or you can use it to knock an opponent off-track,” Ben said. He dipped a cup into the vat of Pimm’s and took a long swig. “You play from the back, but the only rule is there are no rules, really. You may hit in any direction, you may strategically take out an opponent. If you’re knocked out of bounds you’re out.” Ben gestured vaguely to the borders of the pitch, which were well understood if you were a Bridgerton. 

“You don’t even have to hit your own ball,” Fran added. “But you should know that if you use your turn to knock someone else entirely out of play — it’s open season on you.” 

“Total suicide move, only do it when you want to take someone down,” Greg explained. 

Colin came next, gesturing grandly around them. “One ancestor built this house. Another built Bridgerton Group. There was the Prime Minister. The Cabinet member during World War Two who ensured that every refugee child from Continental Europe found a home. But this—”

“—Is our family’s greatest achievement,” Ant finished, handing Kate a very full cup of Pimms. 

Her eyes flicked from the mallets, to the booze, to the wickets, as her fingers brushed his for the cup. “One of your lot turned croquet into an elaborate drinking game,” she summarized, mouth upturned mirthfully. 

“Blasphemy!” Anthony exclaimed, wrapping an arm around her waist from behind as she cackled. He tucked a kiss into her neck as he tried to tickle her into apologizing. “You’re a menace, Sharma.”

“‘No, that’s exactly it,” Simon said, taking a long dra of his Pimms, and looking like he was reconsidering the next fifty years of family gatherings. 

“I think I’m going to like this. How do we pick mallets?” Kate asked, eying the stand of a dozen.

“May I have a beer?” Hy asked, as Greg popped one open. All eyes turned to Anthony. 

Ant sighed. “One, Hy. Nothing else till dinner.” He turned back to Kate as his sister cheered. “You may pick first. As the guest. Daff, Si, you can have next pick.” 

Taking a sip of her Pimm’s, Kate decisively grabbed the black mallet. The siblings gasped. “What?” she asked. 

“The mallet of death,” Greg breathed. 

“That’s Ant’s,” Hy explained, in a rushed, bossy tone. “That’s always Ant’s.” 

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, though it was not. 

“You just threatened my life over that mallet!” Col squeaked indignantly. 

“I did not,” he barked back. “You … misunderstood.” 

“Ahh, is this your lucky mallet?” Kate waggled her eyebrows as Daff and Si quickly grabbed their preferred mallets—light blue and red. “I didn’t know you were one of those men who idolizes his equipment.” She took a few highly competent practice swings before twirling the mallet like a baton. “Tell me, does it have a name? Do you need this, for a strong performance?” 

He stepped into her space so his siblings couldn’t hear. “You know very well that I don’t need anything but a strong grip for an excellent performance,” he murmured, but already a little vexed. She smirked, clearly thinking she had the upper hand. 

“You know, maybe it was a mistake to invite the sister of the reigning Wimbledon champion to play Pall Mall,” Fran mused loudly, to break them up. “Anyways, shall we pick?” 

With that, his remaining six siblings dove for a mallet. 

Leaving the options of pink, purple, or teal for Anthony. 

With a surprised huff, he grabbed the pink and stalked to the first tee, where Kate was still laughing merrily at him. Tossing the mallet of death over her shoulder, she all but sashayed to the tee to take her shot, giving him an excellent view of her bum. 

He knew he had an advantage because he understood everyone’s play styles — Greg, Hy and Fran were unsophisticated but eager; El took it out too aggressively and got obsessed with taking out Col and Ben; Col had no sense of long game; Simon hated it all on principle and was prone to quitting halfway through. That left Daff, who was wily, and Ben, who was unpredictable. And, of course, Kate, who had a glint in her eye that told him she would fucking love Pall Mall. For crying out loud, he’d picked her up racing the Thames. 

She scanned the lawn, took sips and not gulps of the Pimm’s, and, at least in the first wicket, positioned her shots conservatively to get a sense of the lay of the land. Daff finished first, in three strokes, on the first wicket; Ant right behind her with four; Kate, Ben, and Si in five. “Not bad, Sharma,” he smirked, as she carefully collected her ball after she finished. “Especially for a woman.” 

She recognized the callback. “And not too shabby for an arsehole, there.” 

Col and El were out first, on the second wicket: El wasn’t able to resist knocking Colin out and then Ben helpfully used his turn to knock El out entirely, too. Hy chipped hers into the lake soon after; Greg fell behind helping her wade in to find her orange ball. As his siblings faltered, Kate’s strokes became longer and more assured; she won the second wicket, tying with him a stroke ahead of Daff and Ben. His siblings and the crowds cheered on her third wicket, which covered about twelve feet neatly before rolling in. 

“I wouldn’t take you for a sore loser, Ant,” she remarked, mock-curtsying in response to his aggravated, polite claps. “Your whole ‘I’m a gentleman’ thing and all. Where’s your sense of honor?”

“A true mark of a gentleman is sport,” he said, very seriously. “Don’t get cocky at your beginner’s luck, Sharma.” He stepped closer to her, pulled her closer from the underside of her elbow. “Though I might suggest a deal.” This he murmured under his voice.

“A deal?” She was intrigued.

“Truce, between us, until we take out the rest of these jokers, or they self-eject.” He held out a pinky finger. It would be the two of them by Eight.. 

“What’s the winner get?” she smiled, an eyebrow raised, clearly coming with some ideas of her own.  

“Ben, if you do not hit the fucking ball in the next minute, I will hit one of yours ,” Daff called angrily from behind him, and he turned to realize that Benedict had spent at least five minutes lining up a shot. 

“This is going to be easy,” Kate declared, wrapping her pinky around his signet ring. He raised their linked fingers for a kiss. “You’re on.” 

The alliance didn’t de-escalate any competitiveness; nothing brought coarseness out in Brits like sport. At one point, Si, scandalized at Kate’s trash talk as Ant lined up a shot, asked, “Do you cheer at Wimbledon with that mouth?” And Ant was hardly opposed to stepping straight behind her and whispering about how exactly he’d like her to handle his mallet in hopes of distracting her. 

One by one, as he predicted, everyone dropped: Si literally said, “I love you Daff, but I hate this and I quit,” during the third wicket; Greg simply chucked his ball out after it took him five attempts to get over the stream on four. Fran missed a series of hairpin turns around the sculpture garden on five and went out of bounds. Ben, after Kate refilled his Pimm’s one too many times, puked into the tulip bed — automatic disqualification — on seven. Finally, with everyone but Kate and Daff out, Anthony promptly used his turn to send Daff’s ball into the sun. With a middle finger up, she marched to the sidelines. 

Ant practically vibrated as he turned to face off with Kate for the final three holes. It had been a perfect morning already: the weather was glorious, the banter top-notch, there had been only one-near fight. He was going to win Pall Mall, he would get to gloat in front of Kate, and then they would sneak off and he would collect his winnings. 

Honestly, the entire weekend had been fantastic, and there was no place he’d rather be, no people he’d rather be with. It was much needed, a respite and a reset with Kate. With the exception of that weird moment during his toast last night — and honestly, he had no idea what he would have said, so he was grateful that she stopped him from running his mouth — things had felt easy with her, for the first time in weeks. She was disappearing every so often to talk to Edwina, preparing for the French, but otherwise she was funny and leisurely and present, surprisingly relaxed and delighted, but not stressed, by his family. She had a warmth and an openness and a laugh that just seemed to draw everyone in, a compassionate but knowing energy that was simply magnetic. He imagined her at Edwina’s sleepovers growing up, the cool big sister giving everyone advice, Edwina probably bragging to her friends about Kate. He noticed how naturally his own siblings gravitated toward her — Hy needing her opinion on earrings, Greg wanting tennis tips, El asking questions to learn more about human-rights violations in Uganda. 

He wasn’t an idiot. Being friends with Kate was becoming a bit too consuming, and he knew he needed to be more efficient. If this was the last weekend that he and Kate spent together, it was perfect and he was glad of it. 

“You know, Sharma.” He twirled his pink mallet as he gloated. “I probably should have mentioned I’ve got a four-year streak here.” 

“I beat you last year!” Daff yelled, stamping a foot for emphasis. 

“You won on a technicality, it didn’t count,” he called back. 

“Ah,” Kate said. “I probably should have mentioned something too.” Lining up a shot, she punted his ball back nearly an entire wicket. “You may have honor on the Pall Mall field. I absolutely do not.” 

His siblings, and Daff’s friends, cheered. 

Neither of them was willing to simply hit the other ball out of play — rules dictated that would trigger the remaining player getting a final stroke, anyways, ensuring they’d both lose — and they traded the lead between eight and nine. Heading into ten, she was two strokes back, but the crowd was on her side. 

The set-up was probably Ben and Daff’s best yet: the back of the lake was an untidy, boggy mess, and they’d placed the wicket on top of the innermost but largest knob, two feet in diameter of rocky dirt about six feet from solid ground and surrounded by marsh and lily pads. It was like the last, high-stakes hole in a putt-putt course; a million ways for it to go wrong and only one way to get it right. 

Kate went first, lining up a shot that chipped directly onto solid ground, about a foot from the wicket. “Impressive,” he acknowledged as she took a sip of her Pimm’s. 

“Your turn,” she smiled, waggling her eyebrows in excitement. 

Their crowd had followed, laughing and loud, and was shouting mostly pro-Kate sentiments. He took a careful shot, but while it landed initially on land, it quickly rolled into the marsh, coming to a stop about eight feet from the wicket. “Bollocks,” he cursed. Kate skipped over, neatly knocked her ball through the wicket, and returned to cheers. She hadn’t won yet, though; she would only win if it took him more than two strokes. The first got him within a foot of the rock, still on the marsh, with a good angle to the wicket. 

“Last shot, Bridgerton,” Kate taunted. 

“At least you’ll go down with honor,” Ben said. 

“No he won’t ,” Daff, still sore, replied.

The shot arced perfectly, and for a glorious second, he thought he’d made it; then, it hit a rock and dropped, unceremoniously, back into the pond. The crowd burst into cheers; Ben and Col boosting Kate up and running her around. She pounded her arms, triumphant. She was stunning. It was hard to be mad at losing when it made Kate so happy to win, and he laughed uproariously as she winked at him. 

“Well, Ant,” Fran said, coming to comfort him as he stared at Kate. “I think we need her to come back every year.” 

Eventually she came back to him, crawling into his space as the onlookers began to chat about the game and pick up the wickets and put away the mallets. “Well done, Bridgerton,” she said, dropping into a deep curtsy. “Good game and all that.” 

He grinned back, still chuckling in an unbelievable tone — it was simply hard not to smile at her. “Well done, Sharma.” He gave a slight bow. 

“You know, we never settled on terms, but I’d like at least five orgasms, and I have ideas on locations and preferences. First, with the mallet of death nearby I’d like to consider the shed —” He kissed her, to shut her up, and because he wanted to, and she kissed him back eagerly, laughing as she slid her sliding forward to cup his face. The world quieted; his family and guests, uninterested in their antics, faded away. 

The sky was perfect, the day was perfect, this place and time was perfect. 

But when he pulled back and looped an arm around her shoulder, he saw rain clouds on the horizon, and somehow felt , in his gut, that they weren’t to be merely literal.

As the Pall Mall game broke up — finally, Bridgertons were at their absolute worst during Pall Mall — Pen checked her phone for any activity on the Whistledown account. She was grateful, and a little embarrassed, that El (backed up by Col and Fran) had insisted that she come for the family-only pre-party; Daphne was lovely, but terrifying, and nothing made you feel more self-conscious and poor than the future King of England jokingly asking for spoilers for upcoming episodes of your sister’s reality show.  

Plus, it was both unnerving and annoying to be here — annoying because she was likely missing good tidbits back in London, and unnerving because it had been extremely stupid of her to post about El, Anthony, and Kate Sharma at the birthday party. El and Lady Vi had gotten into a row about the evening — Lady Vi insistent she just wanted all her children to be happy and El accusing her of being overbearing and therefore the cause of El’s faux pas. Pen doubted Anthony had seen the item — he hadn’t cared at first, according to El — but someone from the Daily Mail definitely had. Ant and Kate had been photographed at some couple’s dinner and he’d traced it back, lecturing El about discretion and keeping it together, alcoholically (this was slightly irritating, because it just proved Pen’s point). At which point El had committed herself to uncovering Whistledown, and started talking about hiring someone to track them down by IP address or “magical Internet means, I don’t know, this is why you pay someone.” She hadn’t gotten very far, because El always had a million things going on, but it felt close and edgy.   

Because the Bridgertons were not only some of her closest friends, their friendship offered her protection — kept her in polite society despite her sisters’ antics and her family’s pecuniary troubles. Compromising that would be incredibly stupid, even though her account was positively blowing up, which was wonderful and astonishing. She was working toward a careful balance between the content that people wanted to see — about the truly famous and interesting — with the content that wouldn’t get her in trouble — typically self-submitted by wannabes — while keeping her tone and perspective consistent: upbeat but insidery, in-the-know but also arch. She was fiercely protective of the account and the brand; this was the most successful, most interesting thing she had ever done. She reckoned she was the most talked-about person in all of London, and the thought steeled her spine.

Luckily she wasn’t missing much. There were a few submissions from a Veuve house party that she dutifully put in Stories, with some funny captions, and another entreaty DM’ed from Charlotte Queensbury: It’s easier if you just tell me who you are .  

“You know, Pen, next time you should join us on the pitch.” A familiar voice said directly into her ear. 

She turned, quickly, slamming the lock screen on her phone. “Oh, gosh, Col,” she exclaimed. “You scared me.” She looked up, straight up, into his warm eyes. They hadn’t hung out much recently — he was apparently back, at least casually, with Marina — and even though this was his house she was still surprised every time she turned and he was there.

“State business on Instagram?” he said with a smile. “Seriously. Why didn’t you join us?” 

“I think you all underestimate both how fun it is to play Pall Mall with you, and how entertaining it is to watch you all slowly turn on each other. It’s like the best Liam Neeson movie.” 

“And yet, we have our first non-Bridgerton champ.” In the distance Kate — pretty in a cotton-candy-colored Shoshanna high-low dress — was still making out with Anthony, ridiculous in a BG Patagonia, linen shorts, an Oxford shirt, and loafers. 

“Technically, yes,” she agreed. She personally wouldn’t be too surprised if Kate wasn’t eventually one.

“You all coming in for elevenses? Ben needs some carbs,” El said. Ben, wearing an embroidered Percival linen shirt and a nauseated expression, swooned beside her. 

“You did notice that Kate kept refilling your Pimms, Ben?” Pen asked. Turning to El, she said, “he drank at least three times more than anyone else.” 

Ben rolled his eyes — sort of — and slurred, “This … is … Ant.” 

“It’s OK, buddy. Next year. Next year, OK?” El said, patting his cheek. 

“I’ll be right in — I need to talk to Pen first,” Col said. El wrinkled her brow but nodded, carting Ben up the hill and toward sobriety. 

“Turning down elevenses? Are you well ?” she asked, trying for a light laugh. She twisted her strawberry-printed Miu Miu dress with her hands. 

“I’m grand, just wanted to talk about something,” he said, taking her elbow with intention, guiding her on a wide loop through the front gardens.

“Oh?” she up-spoke, then winced. Bloody hell. 

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” 

“About what I said about what?” 

“Bridgerton Group? What I could pitch that may get Ant’s support?” He looked confused, and a little irritated, that she didn’t remember.

“Oh! Yes. Of course, I’m sorry. Have you given it more thought?”   

“Yes. I wanted to tell you first. So if it’s stupid, you have to swear not to tell anyone.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So I was thinking, how lucky was I, to get to do all that travel over the last five years, right? I’ve been to every continent, eaten the best food, stayed in the most interesting hotels, done the most memorable activities. I’ve swum in the Mediterranean, fed turtles in the Galapagos, scuba dived in Belize, danced in the street during Holi, sent off a wish lantern on the beach in Thailand. So I thought, what if we packaged all that to make it more accessible for everyone in their late teens or early twenties?” 

“Like, a hostel?” 

“Like, a vertically integrated travel experience. A property chain as the starting unit, because it’s the Bridgerton name, but pair it with social media and a local network. We’ll mesh a fun community with cool things to do, places to stay, great food and new people. Crowd-source the best information, so people feel like they’re getting a really expert, local, and tailored experience. Start with like ten cities, recruit ambassadors to source the best stuff to do — and then create content for YouTube and Instagram, all of it. We’d develop partnerships with airlines and businesses and brands to cover part of the costs, build in media, making it a whole thing. Like, a digital concierge. Then, people can easily pick their budget — like, 50 euros a day — and we’d do all the work and bring a party along, as well. Bring the Bridgerton quality and reputation for luxury to the masses.” 

It was rough-edged but — “that actually sounds kind of cool, Col.” 

“You think Ant will go for it?” 

She hesitated. She had no idea. “You need more details for Anthony — like what’s the investment from him? Building the hostels? The media? Stuff like that. But maybe talk with Si too — he does all that tech VC and might have some ideas on the app.” And probably, how to pitch to Anthony. “But you could definitely handle a lot of the content creation to start, your emails when you were traveling were always so … evocative. I always felt like I was swimming with the dolphins or whatever from them.” 

“You really think?” 

“Yeah. And like, young people today, we love experiences, right? It’s not about settling down or buying big things, it’s about making memories and having those stories to tell.” 

“Yes. Exactly!” 

She was really warming up now, particularly since he seemed so thrilled by her enthusiasm. “And so it really taps into that, and I think can really capitalize on, like, what you specifically bring to the table.” 

“What I, specifically, bring to the table?” His eyes crinkled. 

“Of course! You’re friendly and kind, you want people to have a good time, you really know how to make people feel included and to make a party really fun. You’re really personable and easygoing in that way. And now you could do that for everyone.” She knew he often felt a little intimidated by Ben and Ant and Daff, but he really did have quite a bit to offer.

He broke into a stunning grin. “Thanks, Pen. You’re a really brilliant friend.” 

“I’m alright,” she said, with a bit of a self-deprecating smile. 

“What do you think I should do next? Talk to Ant?” 

“Anthony’s a businessman. He’ll want a pitch. Numbers, metrics, all that. Like I said, he needs to know you’re serious about this.” Especially after you’ve sloughed off the last year of working a vanity job he procured , she wanted to say, but she did not. “D’ya know how to do all that? Figure out how much this would cost, what it would look like?” 

“I don’t, but I think one of the blokes at work does.” 

“Well, maybe talk to them? Put together a pitch. Anthony will hear you out and help you.”

“You think?”

“I know. He wants you to succeed.” The Bridgertons, for all their squabbles and drama, and all their exposure to other families in their circle, always seemed adorably unaware of how deep and rare their bonds were. Fran and Daff seemed to have some idea, but everyone else was clueless, almost careless; the siblings assumed that everyone was jealous of their money or property when truthfully people were jealous of the care they had for each other. Lady Vi was absolutely meddlesome, but truly did only want her children to be happy: For the last decade, she had hosted a drag-brunch fundraiser for Stonewall every year during Pride, starting as soon as she suspected Benedict was bi; it was frivolous (and cringe) but quietly radical, protecting her children and pushing their set forward generally. The Bridgertons empathized with the casual dysfunction they witnessed: Si’s alcoholic, abusive guardian uncle; Nick and Freddie’s vipers’ nest of inbred, power-hungry relatives; Penelope’s weak father and unscrupulous mother; Sophie’s selfish, feuding parents. But they would never understand, and they all conflated tragedy with toxicity. They were so, so lucky in that way. 

“And you really think it’s a good idea?” 

“I really think it’s a really good idea,” she confirmed. 

He leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks Pen. You’re bloody brilliant. I couldn’t have done this without you.” 

“Save me a dance tomorrow,” she replied with a light laugh. “And remember me when you make a killing. Now — elevenses?”

Later Friday afternoon Ant stared out the window, peering at the looming storm clouds. The shoot was happening on the back lawn, but Kate had begged off — she was tired, and a vegetarian — so he had offered to keep her company. A gentleman, and all. They’d gotten in rounds three and four of her Pall Mall bounty and fallen asleep; when he woke up, she was gone. 

Her running shoes were gone and, predictably but annoyingly, she hadn’t left a note. He considered heading outside to join his family but the quiet was welcome, after the days of busyness and celebration. And Kate. He needed to think. No, he knew. 

This couldn’t last much longer. 

He quite enjoyed … enjoying her, quite a bit. He hoped they could even maintain a friendship — hell, he’d slept with Amelia and Maritzia, two of Daff’s friends present, so surely a social relationship was possible — but it was increasingly clear that he couldn’t balance his family, job, search for a wife, and Kate. If he wanted to be both engaged and a CEO by Christmas, he needed to adjust where he spent his time. 

He was slowly circling the idea of Eleanor Westchester, the supremely boring but very proper and popular stepdaughter of the prime minister. She would be here for the ball and Sunday’s garden party, and he made a commitment to himself to at least chat with her.

Because she was perfectly pleasant and well-connected, and seemed to keep herself very busy with her purses, her charities, and decorating her apartment. She would be content, it seemed, with an independent arrangement; she was well-educated if not a rocket scientist; she kept busy but kept a balance. She had been in his orbit since she was sixteen and friendly with Daff; she was well-enough versed in British politics, law, and business; she liked ducks and puppies and books. It would be quite easy to offload social and society obligations onto her; a bit hard to carry a conversation but beneficial nonetheless. 

Hell, Eleanor fit into his world better than he did. 

He watched a lone, lean figure cut into the gardens — Kate, in a neon-yellow sports bra and firework-print Nike shorts, finishing her run. Impulsively, he threw a long-sleeved shirt and jeans on, and headed outside to meet her.

She was in the gazebo, leaning against the railing and a bit lost in thought, when he made it outside. “Oy,” he called. “Good run?” 

She looked up, eyes startled and definitely wary. “Yeah. Cleared my head and all that.” She was definitely in a weird mood, he could tell.

“The Pall Mall high didn’t do that?” he cajoled teasingly, settling his arms on the rail next to hers. He ran a hand up her forearm, hoping to calm her. “Or the fourth orgasm?” 

She chuckled, still seeming like she was just going along. “Nope.” She popped the p . “Only made me ready for number five, actually.”

“Happy to assist,” he said. 

She took a deep breath, and then warmed into the conversation. “Kicking your arse at Pall Mall is definitely going to be a memory I cherish forever,” she teased gently. “Ten out of ten would recommend that experience in the Yelp review of this old heap.” She nudged her chin at it. “Speaking of. Simon told me what you did with the house. Really impressive.” 

“Oh. Thanks.” Now it was his turn to be nervous. 

“I mean it.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Seriously. I’ve been there.” 

“I know,” he said, nervously dancing his fingers onto her palm. “I do know, I mean. And, thanks.” They stood in silence for a beat, both sort of lost in space and time. His heartbeat picked up; he tried not to ramble. “And. Thank you for coming. I know it’s a lot — the Pall Mall, everyone’s history, all the traditions, all of Daff’s dress codes. And this has been light, really, with just family. It’s going to get a lot worse when Mother and all the guests descend.” 

Tomorrow, very early, a switch would flip and their little bubble would burst. Guests arrived at 3:00, and he’d be Society’s for the rest of the evening: greeting each person individually, making a welcome toast, and spending most of the evening helping his mother circulate and thank people. “Do you want a signal, when you need to bolt? Happy to lend you the Jag.” 

“I don’t mind; all of the literacy galas and watch launches and gallery openings this spring were good training,” she said gently. “It’s truly OK. Step back a bit and it’s almost … amusing.” 

He scoffed. She was so lucky that this wasn’t her life. “For you . Maybe the signal can go both ways so when I get stuck in some interminable conversation about someone’s new golf membership in Scotland, or some awful scandal solved with cash involving a maid in Antibes, or someone’s drunken boat crash.”  He was surprised at how mocking and mean the words came out; he’d long ago mastered the art of ruthlessly channeling any rage about his lot in life into productivity. 

“Yes, I suppose I have no stakes here, so we manage the nonsense differently.” She looked into the distance and her tone surprised him, too; she seemed a little … sardonic? bitter? … there. She closed her hand around his. They rarely held hands, and she had very nice ones. “Anyways. I’ve been thinking. Sophie arrived today, and she’s staying in the guest wing. I’m thinking I’ll move in there.” 

He stilled. “Are you not having a good time?” he asked. He felt a wave of panic rise in his throat, and he quickly squashed it down.

“I’m having a great time. With three hundred people descending, though, it just feels …” Her voice trailed off. “Smart.” 

“If you’re worried about being associated —” he started, trying to maintain a remove through his franticness.

“— What the hell, worried about being associated —” 

“— I just mean there will be far more entertaining drama for people to see who’s going into the family wing —” 

“— Between the Mail and this, I don’t want to give anyone the wrong impression —” 

“— There will be too many people around, anyways, there’s no wrong impression to give —” 

“— You’re the one that it looking for a wife , me staying with you is hardly—”

And then he saw the bee.

“ — Hold still,” he snapped, breath heavy as he gripped her forearm. Fuck, did he have an Epi-pen? No, he’d barely put on sneakers. 

“Ant, what the hell—” she said angrily. “Just because you don’t like what I’m saying—” 

“Bee—” he forced out, trying to move her away from the damned insect. 

She shuddered, a bit alarmed, at either the bug or his behavior. “It’s nothing —” she started, but he grappled with her to get her out of the damned way and she tried to sit still and in the tug of war:  “Ow —” she winced, mostly annoyed, as the thing got her right on the clavicle. 

She seemed fine, but his vision narrowed and then blackened at the edges. His breath was sharp, caught in his chest; he was hyperventilating. He didn’t know if he was dying or Kate was; he felt paralyzed — unable to figure out where or how to move, his limbs shaking and jerking disconnectedly as tears choked forward. His body buckled and everything felt distant, Kate miles away. He was delirious, hazy, maybe shouting? He couldn’t tell. His throat wasn’t working, the muscles were just flapping around. Then —

“Ant. Anthony.” Kate’s heartbeat under his palm, strong and beautiful; her fingers clenching his; her eyes locking on his. He tried to match her breathing, her heartbeat, to come back to earth. He wrapped his fingers around his wrist, his thumb searching for her pulsepoint. Her other hand reached out to his cheek, rubbed her fingers through his hair. Slowly, her voice cut through the panic.  “Ant. Baby. Ant. I’m here. You’re here. It’s OK. We’re OK. Look at me. ” 

Her heart kept beating under him, bold and strong and vibrant. Present and unerringly steadfast. And just as suddenly as the panic had rushed over him he crested, and she came into sharp focus, worried and concerned but overwhelmingly understanding and compassionate — too compassionate, too understanding, too overwhelming. His breath rushed back into his body, and he returned to his senses so quickly he could almost hear a whoosh . He was present, alive; she was real, solid. “ D on’t move rooms,” he commanded abruptly, gripping her biceps so she understood. She stepped back, startled. 

And he fled back to the house. 

He ran, truly, wheezing by the time he reached the door. He leaned and then fell over in the entryway, collapsing against the cool marble Bridgerton crest as he fought to get his breathing under control. All he could see was his father’s face, his lips gray, floating in front of him as he gasped for breath, for life, for one more chance. In the distance, he could hear the carefree laughter of his damned siblings. Slowly, his body and his mind met again. He finally sat up, curled his fists against his forehead, tried to unpack what the hell just happened. 

He looked at his father’s watch. Still ticking, unrelentingly, forward. 

Time to get moving. 

He and Kate cleverly managed to avoid each other the rest of the afternoon and evening — their last small dinner was mostly casual, and she slid between Maritzia and Col while he took the head of the table next to Nick and Ben. Afterwards he, Si, and the boys slipped out for cigars while she went with Daff and the girls for a night swim; when billiards broke up he went to bed while Ben announced he was heading to the cinema to watch Dirty Dancing with El and Kate. At some point as the rain started up he felt her curl into bed next to him. He sank into her and deeper into sleep, the smell of her perfume the last thing he remembered. 

And then, there was an enormous clap of thunder, and he woke immediately. Squinted at the clock. 4:12 AM. No Kate, and a cold bed. Her Goyard luggage was still there, though; as were her bajillion shoes and all her various hair oils and face creams. He supposed he should be grateful; she was clearly going to leave him in the morning. 

Still, he was compelled to get out of bed and search for her. The rest of the family wing was dark; he wandered out to the main area of the second story of the house. There, in his father’s library, he could see a dim light through a cracked door. 

“Hey,” he said softly as he opened the door. Kate glanced up from where she was examining a book, startled, and he cast his eyes down. “Are you — are you alright?” He felt like an intruder in his own house.

“Yes,” she said, but she was clearly lying. Her eyes were big, fast, exhausted. She tossed a book on a table and — nervous to be daughter — she crossed her arms, starting to pace again. She was wearing a short, lacy white sleep set he’d seen before, loads of times, with a longer, vibrantly purple dressing robe that always reminded him of a saree thrown over it. She opened and shut the robe, tossed it behind her hips — her hands fluttering, unable to quite land now that she’d discarded the book. Her curls were wild, and covered most of her face. “It’s just the damn storm,” she finally exclaimed. It did seem to be a proper English downpour outside, but he’d barely noticed. 

“You don’t — you’re not a fan.” 

“No,” she sighed, then sat down on the leather couch. She looked, for lack of a better word, haunted, and he moved toward her before pausing six inches from her. “My mother — my amma — died in a storm,” she finally explained. “The rain makes me remember.” 

“Oh,” he sat down, tentatively. “Was she — driving?” Kate had never talked about how her mother died. 

“Yeah,” Kate sighed, looking up at the ceiling, totally still. “She was going to the grocery store, at about 9 in the morning. A drunk driver hit her.” The silence lingered for what felt like hours before she finally finished, reluctantly: “I was in the back seat. She hadn’t taken me to nursery yet.”

“Oh, Kate,” he croaked, trying to wrap an arm around her. Instead, she dropped to the side, angling her body along the couch, and bringing him down with her. He wedged himself between her and the back of the couch, and she turned to face him: their noses almost touching, their bodies, perfectly untangled, lined up at every point that mattered, her eyelashes close enough to whisper against his cheeks. He didn’t know if he could touch her, so he just stared into her eyes, trying to understand her. Perfectly still. The storm raged, but they were quiet. The surrounding house was soft as a prayer. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.” There was a tone of her typical droll disdain in the words. But she curled a hand, whisper-light, against his chest, finding his heartbeat this time. She softened against him, and he calmed.

“Do you — remember?”

She shook her head, the curls falling into his nose and mouth. She felt ephemeral, and fragile, the opposite of the Kate he knew. Her eyes met his, but they were unfocused and beyond the conversation. He stroked a thumb over her cheek, trying to bring her back. “Literally, my earliest memory is of the pain as I woke up in the hospital. Appa telling me it would be alright, that he would get me ice cream.” 

He inhaled her exhale. “Why didn’t — why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not … it’s not that it’s not important. But it just is . You get that.” 

“Maybe, but —” he struggled to articulate his objection. His grief, his father, had never needed to be explained: He had seven siblings, and nobody else needed to get them. Trying to label, to sort the emotions, to bring them into precise physical definitions — it wasn’t something he’d ever done. It was simply the mass of a burden. But suddenly, her grief felt strikingly different. Rawer. “D’ya talk about that with your dad? Or, mum? When it storms?”

“I did, I think, when I was younger.” She took a deep breath, slid her hand down his arm to his arse to budge in closer. “Eventually, being scared of storms simply wasn’t … convenient.” 

“The feelings were under control?” 

She laughed ruefully. “Exactly.” 

He traced the curve of her hip with his hand. “What was her name?” he asked, suddenly, rabidly wanting to know something about her.

She sighed. “Nalini.” 

It was pretty, he thought. He moved his hand forward, rubbed two fingers around an emerald she often wore on a chain. “Do you talk about her with … Edwina?” They talked constantly. And it sounded terrifically lonely otherwise, Kate and a mental attic of compartmentalized memories. He suddenly felt grateful for the years with his father, for the five siblings that remembered him too. Edmund was still a steady part of their family life: There were photos of Ed everywhere; Ant told the younger ones how proud he’d be; Violet mentioned him often. He wondered if there was still space for her amma in Kate’s family, or if a new family unit had sealed around Kate. 

She laughed hollowly. “All of this happened before Edwina was even a twinkle in Mum’s eye. She cannot imagine, and I do not want her to. Besides — ” She stared at him, looking a bit guilty — “she has her own problems.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Kate sighed again, a light, shuddery thing, and looked away. She swallowed, holding tears at bay. He pushed her hair down away from her shoulder, warming her under his hands, trying to get her to talk. “She’s … she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be, career-wise, honestly. Except she won Wimbledon about five years ahead of schedule,” she choked on the words a little, like they were a confession she couldn’t stop. “She’s just … breaking down. Anxiety, fear, imposter syndrome, I don’t know. All of it. She’s barely keeping it together. Before every tournament, before every game.” 

He nodded. “So that’s why you’re going to her matches so much. And she’s calling you all the time.” 

Kate squirmed. “She is — Edwina is the person I love the most, since I was seven years old. She’s bubbly, joyful — a purely happy, kind person. I’ve tried to protect that innocence — made sure after Appa got sick that she could still take lessons and have all the best training even as we needed to pay more for care and he had to stop performing surgeries.”

“It’s the same, I think, with Hy. I think we all try to protect her from everything, since Dad died before she was born.”

“Yes. So. Of course I’ll go when Edwina needs me.” 

“And who goes to you?” 

“I’ve always taken care of myself, I suppose.” She shifted, her eyes snapping into focus. “Do you want to talk about today?” she finally whispered. 

“I apologize for frightening you,” he said immediately, casting his eyes toward her ear. “I don’t know quite what overcame me.” 

She looked disappointed in the formality. “You don’t?”  

“Ah. I mean, of course, with my father — that was frightening. I get more concerned now about bee stings.”

“You carry Epi-pens with you everywhere.” 

“Yes, well. Hy inherited his bee allergy. So one must be prepared.” 

“Ah.” She shifted. “It must have been scary, when he died.”

“You’ve read the news reports,” he rebutted lightly. “It wasn’t quite like that.” 

She hesitated, then finally asked, “What was it like?” 

He sighed. “Much worse.” His lip quirked up into a wry, humorless smile. “Trying to find help and help him at the same time, eventually all you could do was … hug him and tell him everything would be OK. It took, I don’t know, ten minutes? We were in a garden, outside Eton, my phone was in a bag … nobody could find the damned Epi-Pen or even an antihistamine. The ambulance arrived just in time to say he was gone.” The last minute had been the worst. 

She nodded, and looked like she wanted to say something else. But then she reconsidered, and said, “That sounds terrifying.” 

He could have said more — about how the terror came later, about the days grinding through the financials and the nights partying with Nick and Si to forget them, the last weeks of his mother’s last pregnancy; the months of Col or El reminding him that he wasn’t their father. About. About the gap year spent caring for a baby sister instead of baby goats in New Zealand. About how angry he was, how ornery, how hot-headed, the entire decade after. About the women he’d chased, slept with, forgotten. About punching Simon for dating Daff, about yelling at Ben and Col for their thoughtlessness, about lecturing El and Greg for their smug privilege. About the spiral he’d had just that afternoon, as soon as she said she wanted to leave. 

About how watching the bee sting her that afternoon was the third most terrifying moment of his life, after his father’s death and being handed a newborn Hy. 

But his throat felt dry, his heart too close to his rib cage. So, he just said, “It is what it is.”

“Who goes to you?” she repeated.

He smiled, a little wry. “I’ve always been good at taking care of myself, I suppose. Come, we should sleep.”  

She sighed, recognizing a deflection when she saw it. He finally put an arm behind her waist and pulled her closer, overwhelmingly exhausted by the words said but more importantly, those left unsaid. 

They fell asleep there, and she was gone — again — when he woke up in the morning.

Aubrey Hall’s indoor swimming pool was connected to the main house through a long, all-glass hallway lined with plants; the footprint had at one point been an orangery before being converted to a natatorium one hundred years ago by a forward-thinking ancestor. 

And it truly was forward-thinking: There were so many more surfaces to roll joints on in a swimming pool than in a greenhouse, Ben thought appreciatively, carefully shaking marijuana over rolling paper with an heirloom silver teaspoon he’d found at the marble-and-gold bar. He’d taken precisely one line of cocaine earlier, halfway through the ball, and this was the perfect way to come down for the evening. 

The ball had wound down an hour ago, most guests departing or (if they were lucky) heading to one of the forty-five guest rooms on premises (twenty in the east wing; twenty-five in the south wing; the additional twenty-five in the converted servants’ quarters in the attic were used for Knightsbridge equipment storage and unfortunately unavailable) “One for me,” he said, setting it aside. “One for you —” he handed one to Col — “and one for — El, come get this perfectly rolled grass.” 

“Bring it here, please!” she groaned. “My feet are killing me.” She was still wearing her bright-red Galliano slipdress, but she’d removed her shoes and was dangling her feet in the water. She’d streaked her hair a complementary electric lavender that morning, and it fanned out underneath her. “Until you have to wear heels for eight hours as Mum parades you toward every eligible lady in town, you can’t judge me.” 

Shrugging, Ben carried the joint to her, shrugging off his alligator shoes and rolling up his own pant cuffs — he’d had a custom, all-pink velvet tux made at Anderson & Shepherd to match Daff’s theme — to sit next to her. She leaned up on her elbows, grinning, and he held out his silver lighter to get her started. “This is the no-judgment group in the family,” he reassured her. 

“Bless,” she said, with a contented inhale. “Though I think we’re quite judgy, all things considered.” 

Col tossed his suit jacket — a deep maroon with black lapels, Ben approved very much — on a pool chair and sat on El’s other side, knees bent so he didn’t have to get his suit pants wet. While he’d allegedly reconnected with Marina, he’d spent a good deal of his night with Pen Featherington, gorgeous in a poufy pink Giambattista Valli, and Ben had questions. 

“It’s a family trait, I think,” Col said. “What a fucking fantastic party. Well done, Daff and Si.” They clinked joints and sat in quiet bliss, the only sound the burble of the fountains and pools, letting the weed wind through their systems. Above them, stars twinkled through the glass ceiling. Ben lay back on the slate pool deck, marinating in the simple decadence of a country ball, blood thrumming with contentment and THC. 

El never sat still, though, chattering about Lady Danbury “throwing hands” with Lady Featherington over Slightly Shady Sasha. Ben half-listened — Si’s godmother, Lady Danbury, was a member of the House of Lords and a former ambassador to Russia; she had seen some shit — but his mind wandered to a shoot he was doing on Monday, in Dubai. Col picked up the parry; after that interlude, Lady Danbury had then been seen chatting amiably with Kate Sharma. Ben snorted; that was going to be a dangerous duo. “Oh, Ben, and I caught up with Gen, she offered me a dress from her next line,” El added, taking a drag on her joint. “I’m going to wear it to that Montblanc launch party next week.” 

“Fantastic,” he replied. Genevieve Delacroix had been a torrid affair partner for about six months nearly a decade ago, and Ben looked back on their time with fondness. She was a brilliant designer, and finally getting her due in Paris. “I think she left with Freddie, did you see that?” 

“Probably. He’s been seeing her, off and on, since Edwina Sharma dismissed him.” Col shrugged. “Though he’s also got a Dutch princess he’s visiting in Amsterdam.” He wrinkled his nose. “Honestly he’s been a bit blue since Edwina called it off.” Freddie has spent two years in the Middle East in the Army after Daff dumped him, and Ben reckoned he’d been off since he returned and Nick and Bex married. 

“Oh, and Sophie mentioned her job offer in Milan,” El said, elbowing him back to Kent. “That’s amazing.” 

“Yeah, bloody great,” Ben groused. She’d told him earlier this weekend — a wealthy patron wanted her to curate his collection, build it into a private gallery. She’d blurted out the words with her trademark quiet determination, making it clear that her mind was largely made up, and had been made up without his input. Sophie would always surprise him, and this decision was no different. But it stunned him too. 

“If she goes, gonna go after her, Casablanca -style?” Col asked, taking a drag.

“I’ll see her all the time; I’m in Rome twice a month and will pop up,” he said. It was an easy answer and he knew it; he had not quite processed it, yet. Sophie had then spent most of the weekend just outside his reach, a twirl of conversation and booming laughter wearing an impenetrable, impeccable society mask. On the one hand; it was irritating; he knew Sophie and this wasn’t her. On the other hand, it made him wonder how true that statement was. He already missed a woman that he wasn’t sure truly existed anymore. That maybe he never had. 

Their feelings and connection would be a constant; their circumstances and actions would never be. 

And yet it all irritated him in a particularly sharp way, that he didn’t care to examine. 

El gave him a skeptical, pitying look. “Mate … Six months in Milan and she’s riding on the back of a model’s Vespa. A year and she’s engaged.” 

A surprising bark of laughter cut through him. “Nah,” he shook his head. “That’s not Soph.” Sophie would at least always be interesting. 

“Maybe,” El was unsure. “D’you think Whistledown was here?” 

“Of course,” Col said. “All her favorite subjects were.”

“I’ve been thinking, what if I hired a private investigator —” 

Ben heard heel-clicks behind him, and quickly stamped out the joint in case it was Mum. Instead — “did someone text for desserts?” Fran, exasperated, called. She held a glass plate as well as a bottle of Dom, and looked beautiful in a colorblocked red-and-pink halter Valentino. 

“Me! Me! Me!” Col and El chorused, then laughed, realizing that they’d made the same request. Fran handed them both pieces of cake, poured herself a glass of Dom — Fran, Daff and Ant were all absolute lillies about weed — and sat on a chaise near them, a little more careful about her skirt than El was. “Let the afterparty officially commence,” El crowed. “You have fun tonight, Franny?” As the party wound down, Fran had been in deep, flirty conversation with Nicolo Agipito Edoardo Bianco-Barbarossi, Duke of Savoy, the grandson of a deposed Tuscan prince who every five years or so convinced a newspaper to print that he was going to invade Rome. 

“Of course,” she answered, dreamily — always romantic at heart. “And Daff and Si looked so happy.”

“Be a darling and split the Dom?” Ben asked, bouncing up for a glass. Hearing another noise, he diverted toward the hallway. “What damn guest is sneaking around our — Si! Daff!” He exclaimed warmly. “Coming for a bit of buggery?” Behind him, Col and El jeered lasciviously. 

Daff, radiant in a white Oscar de la Renta hand-painted with pink and red flowers, stumbled into the natatorium, tightly wrapped around Simon. They sprung apart as soon as they realized that they weren’t alone, though Simon, sharp as James Bond in white tie, pushed Daff in front of his pants. Ben smirked. 

“You lot had to debrief here?” 

“You had to bang here?” El snorted. 

“Join us,” Ben drawled, amused, as the two grabbed desserts, resigned to the fact that yet again, Daff’s family would intrude. “You must have all the best stories from tonight. We were just discussing Whistledown.” 

“Oh I don’t know if I have anything new …. we all saw Kate ending up in like, twenty photos because the Tatler photographer thought she was hot,” Daff, dry and annoyed, popped a maracon into her mouth as she sat next to Fran. The party had been selected for a collage in the “About Town” section, and Daff had been extremely conscientious of the potential images.  Simon slid a hand around the cord of her collarbone, giving it a subtle massage. “Seventeen with Anthony.” 

“Pierre’s always had good taste,” They’d had a very brief fling, last year after the BAFTAs. He fished around for another joint; finding none, he took a sip of champagne instead and sighed. 

Fran chuckled, ignoring his comment. “Everyone saw that, right? Like everyone noticed Kate and Ant?” They’d been impossible to ignore, Anthony in his best black tux and Kate devastatingly sexy in a cut-out red goddess dress. The most striking thing had been her laugh: bright, clear and bold, carried along by Ant’s deeper chuckle. It had cut across half the room all night. It surprised Ben how often it rang out. 

“Pierre has good taste, Ant has good taste, everything about tonight was extremely tasteful,” Daff snorted. 

“He’s a disaster, right?” Colin asked. “Ant?” 

“Completely,” Simon said with a chuckle. “Also, blind.” He slipped a cigar case out of his inside breast pocket and offered one to Ben, who took it. Not usually his style, but he also didn’t care to roll another joint. Daff, saw the exchange, and shook her head. 

“I quite like her, and when he gets his knickers in a twist because her photo is in my Tatler collage, I will absolutely lose it on him. Simon, I will kill him, and I will need you to help hide the body.” 

“Marrying you, not him,” Si replied. He tried to kiss her, and she smiled fondly, but she ducked the cigar smoke. 

“OK, why can’t Ant just … date her ?” El said, with the insightful tone of someone very baked. 

“Excuse me, I said this months ago,” Col retorted, in a snit. “ You all mocked me.”  

“In our defense, we took Ant at his word,” Daff said, bitter at Col having been right. “Clearly a mistake. He’s half in love with her.” 

“What if we just … talked to them?” Fran suggested. “She’s just good for him.” 

“Yes!” El exclaimed. “I can talk to Kate. She likes me.” 

“Or I could mention something to Ant,” Daff said, warming to the idea. “He comes to me, you know.” She shot them all an imperious, oldest-daughter look. “I’m keen to help guide them, really.”

“Oh my Christ,” Ben groaned. “God. No. That’s a terrible idea. And why does every conversation come back to them?” He was in a particularly bad mood tonight, but he was so sick of it, for everyone’s sakes. 

“What, bloke?” Col asked. 

“Are you mad?”

“He’s our brother,” Fran exclaimed. 

“Yes. We love him dearly. And he is an inflexible wanker. We all know this.” 

“Ben—”

“I’m sorry. He has a gorgeous, Oxford-educator solicitor in his pocket, with a smart and interesting family. She is connected, brilliant, funny. She’s remarkably good at balancing his temper, keeping him engaged, and making him laugh. And his reason for not dating her is …. something incoherent about society?” He snorted, thoughts drifting, suddenly and petulantly, to Soph. “Come. On.”  

“He thinks he —”

“He’s making excuses. None of you lot saying something will make it better. It’s more likely it backfires.”

“No. All of that boils down to An’s absolute snobbery about a world he benefits from ,” El said. Col snorted at her — predictable — protests.  

“I don’t think it’s quite that, I think he’s just fearful,” Daff said. “But he’s reasonable.” 

Si snorted. “This is Ant.” Ben nodded. Finally, someone with sense. 

“So is your plan just to mock him until he sees the light?” Fran asked Ben.

He grinned. “Exactly.” 

“I just don’t think that’s helpful. ” Fran pushed back. “If you knew that we all sat for months on information about someone who would make you truly happy, without helping you see that — well you would get mad, wouldn’t you?” 

Col choked on his joint, Si his cigar, and they slapped each other’s backs in support. Annoyed, Ben said, “It doesn’t matter what I would do. It matters what Ant will do.” 

Fran shook her head. “Daff, I’ve tried nudging him a couple of times, but I don’t think he’s listening to me.” Precisely . “What if you talked to him? You’re engaged, you’re the oldest girl.” 

Daff sighed. “I did invite her here to perhaps get a better handle on the situation,” she admitted. 

“All in favor of Daff solving this!” El called, raising her hand. Fran shot her hand up, Col followed, much more reluctantly, and Simon exchanged a shrug with Ben before lifting two fingers. 

Ben groaned. “You’re turning into Mother, here, Daff.” 

“Either I take charge, or the men in this family grow pairs,” she retorted, a touch petulant. “How is Sophie’s move going, Ben? And Colin — I saw you dancing quite often with Pen, could Marina not make it?” Col, uncomfortable, just raised an eyebrow. 

Ben waved her away. “You know, have at Anthony.” With that, he picked up the bottle of empty Dom. “Alright, bidding you all adieu for now. Best of luck, Daff, and don’t be too mad when I say I told you so .”

“Ant!” Daff’s voice cut clear and bright across the gardens, as she crossed the gravel drive and he slowed his pace into a walk. It was ungodly early, but he’d needed to run off the hangover before the garden party and Eleanor Westchester this afternoon. Somehow, a few guests milled through the garden. 

“Daff,” he greeted her. “Surprised to see you up. Good party last night.” 

“Thanks.” She smiled, pretty but distracted in a sundress and her massive Chanel shades. Her hair was in a wet bun. It looked like she hadn’t slept much. “Kate head out?” 

“Yeah, I was worried about all that time with a random driver, though, so I told her to take the Jag. I’ll need a ride back tomorrow from one of you.” 

“Jesus Christ, Ant,” Daff swore. She pressed both palms to her forehead, then collected herself with a heavy breath. “Alright. We need to walk. And talk. This way.” She guided him to the path through the sculpture garden. 

“Everything alright?” 

“For me, yes. For you … I don’t know. Is it?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sis.” 

Daff looked flustered, but plowed on. “ Are you … still going on dates with Eleanor Westchester? She’s here somewhere, you know.” 

“Yes, I meant to talk to her — I decided a few weeks ago I need to make a decision by the bank holiday, and I think she’s pleasant and lovely.”

“So you’re breaking up with her?” 

“No, I was going to … feel out my intentions.” 

Daff stared at him, as if he’d grown a second head. “So you’d be breaking up with Kate?” 

“I’m … ah —” He searched for words. 

“Ant, if you say, I’m not dating Kate,  after you just spent five nights sharing a room at a family event, I will scream.” She straightened, then yanked her sunglasses onto her hair. “If it’s not clear, our siblings have nominated me to do an intervention.” 

“I — what?” This sounded like Fran. Possibly El. “ They think I need an intervention? Are you all mad?” 

Somehow this set his baby sister off , like a firecracker, and she revved up for a speech. “Anthony Edmund Richard Bridgerton, you may be the stupidest smart person I have ever met. Or the smartest stupid person. I don’t know. But, I do know: You. Are Dating. Kate.” 

“We have an agreement, Daff. And of course we’re friends. Good friends.” He didn’t have a lot of them, really just Ben and Nick and Si. Honestly, he might put Kate above them all. 

“ Please — for your sake, Anthony, please don’t be like that, for once. I mean, don’t be the you that you think everyone needs you to be. Be the you that you can be, that we know you are. And fucking listen .” 

“Excuse me, I have to listen to you all plenty —”

“But you don’t really listen to us, do you? So do it now.” Her voice was serious, and startinglingly direct, so he stopped, nodded. Daff continued. “You have never liked boring. You haven’t! The women you’ve been involved with the longest, like Siena — they are at least extremely interesting . They have their own opinions and preferences, they keep you on your toes. You’re entertained by them, you like being with them, you like the challenge of them. I have known Eleanor Westchester since the first form and I can safely say that in fifteen years, I have never heard her say anything interesting.” 

“Perhaps, but that’s not the same as wanting to settle down —”

“Are you mad and stupid? Or just stupid?”  

“I got the most A-levels out of —”

“You can still be stupid about the things that matter!” Her fury diminished, and her face softened. “I told you months ago that if you just indicated that you were open, a potentially good match would come along. And then, within a week — Kate. It’s like your taxi light came on, she got in and you’ve been on a journey ever since.”

“I have been on dates with several other—”

“And yet Ben says you haven’t slept with any of them!” 

“I know you all think I’m some sort of … fuckboy, according to El —”

“You’ve been more faithful to Kate than I’ve ever seen you be. I know you’re more of a man of action than a poetry-and-flowers type. And for three months, every action you’ve taken has been toward Kate and away from all other women.” 

He sighed. It was really fucking early, and inopportune timing, for this conversation. And she was basically sprinting. “Daff, can you just — slow down, for a minute?”

“Sorry.” She stopped, completely abruptly, and he had to swerve to avoid crashing into her. Hands on her hips, she continued.

“I know you’ve had this ideal-wife picture but — would a life with Kate really be that bad?” 

“I … of course not.” Kate was tops; he had been consistent in that opinion since the beginning of the friendship. “Kate’s fantastic.” 

“Yes. She is funny, and she’s competitive, and she makes you laugh , and she’s brilliant and she loves spending time with you. She’s good for you, Ant.” 

“I … agree with all of that.” 

“Well then, what is the problem?” 

He sighed. He was so tired of explaining this. Each time somehow became incrementally more painful. “She already has a life, Daff. A great, full one. She doesn’t want mine.” She didn’t want him .

Daff stared at him incomprehensibly, but the temper left. “I just don’t think that’s true.” 

“Will you all please trust me with my life? And do not meddle when you don’t understand.” 

“Tell me. Make me understand, Ant.” 

“”I just … We have discussed this.” 

“When?”

“At the jump, we covered what we wanted. She doesn’t want to settle down or have kids, I do. Ergo.”  

“When you made your silly agreement? You’d known each other for a week at that point.” 

“Daff …” 

“Listen.” Her spirit kicked back in; Daff, like Mother, simply couldn’t be deterred sometimes. “You’re with her five or six nights a week. She came to Eloise’s party and managed an interrogation by Mum. You brought her here . And —” Daff straightened, clearly thinking she had a trump card. “She played Pall Mall with us. And liked it. And beat you.” 

“Well, yes, but —”

“—Whereas whenever Simon plays I’m worried he may break up with me.” Her face softened. “Ant. I have seen the way you look at her, and that she looks at you.”

“She said she doesn’t want to marry, or have children. And those are non-negotiables.” They just were, they had been since the day he was born, and even Daff couldn’t understand that. She was born to join another family. He was born to support the one he had. 

“Maybe but … I really think she would have stopped coming round months ago. If that was really true. I don’t know if she’s interested in those things on her own , but she’s very interested in you . Have you at least revisited your agreement?”

“We haven’t.” He wiped at his nose. “There’s no need.” 

“Well, then,” Daff said, clearly thinking she’d proven a point. “You both love negotiating the terms of an agreement. So, revisit — what’s the worst that could happen?” 

“What’s the worst — Daff, honestly.” He rolled his eyes. He wanted this conversation to end, now. “You well know.” 

She stared right back at him, but her eyes were overflowing with compassion. “Say it, Anthony,” she urged, in a whisper. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

He still, and looked down. The sun was just unbearably bright, Daff’s expectations so unbearably high. “This could be over,” he finally said quietly. 

“Well, it’s going to be over no matter what,” Daff said, brisk but gentle. “If you go off and explore your intentions with Eleanor Westchester.” 

“Yeah.” He exhaled. He did know that. That was the truth he kept coming back to; kept hoping to avoid; kept trying to solve. This would end, somehow.

“So, why don’t you talk to Kate?”

He stared up at the sky, trying to piece through a strategy that could work. “I reckon if she was open to revisiting, it would be efficient. And mutually beneficial.” Perhaps eliminating dates with Moderately Eligibles was the best way to restore focus. 

Daff raised an eyebrow. “And, pretty great because you care about her a lot .”

“Of course,” he said, distracted. He’d need to figure out something that could convince Kate. “Sure. Daff.” 

Daff looked unimpressed. “She’s in Paris for the next couple weeks.” 

“Until Edwina is out.” Who knew when that would be, given the state of her play. He crossed his arms and paced a little, in his own head, still trying to work out the angles. “I can talk to her when she gets back.”

“Ant.” Daff’s voice shook him out of his reverie.

“Yeah?” 

“I don’t need you here. I’ll make excuses this afternoon. Just … go to Paris .” 

“You — you sure?” Everything seemed to be happening so quickly. Five minutes ago he was set to proposition Eleanor Westchester. He would need tennis suits, and to figure out where Edwina was playing — perhaps Sophie could help with the clothes, if she wasn’t furious with Ben, and he had Edwina’s number somewhere. 

“I’m sure,” she insisted. “This is well in hand. Go get Kate. You got this, alright?” 

“Under control,” he agreed. 

Kate’s favorite term. 

Chapter Text

You think you’ve found the right man, but there’s so much wrong with him, and then he finds out there’s so much wrong with you , and then it all falls apart.” — Bridget Jones 2: The Edge of Reason

“What a perfect day for tennis!” Appa enthused, lifting his arms above his head, a small British flag velcroed to his palm with an assistive device. Next to him, Mum clapped at Edwina, warming up four rows below them; Appa’s nurse, Consuela, hovered a few rows behind. “Kathani, have you ever seen a more perfect day for tennis?”

“I have not,” she smiled, and it was true: The first day for the women was clear and crisp, with very little wind or humidity; a perfect 22 degrees. Mum and Appa had taken the Chunnel with her yesterday and were thrilled to be there; Appa hadn’t seen Eddie play live in a year, and he radiated excitement. 

Kate felt good, too. It was genuinely exciting to be watching between her parents again (hell, she’d settle for any companionship after the last five solo trips to watch Edwina); Eddie’s warmups had been confident, quick and almost sassy. Kate’s years of watching Edwina traipse around had convinced her that everyone was their hottest while watching tennis, and that was especially true at Roland Garros, where the stands were basically a Parisian fashion show. To add to the good vibes, she’d had the best latte under the shadow of the Champs-Elysees that morning before breakfast with Edwina in the players’ cafeteria. Hearing her sister’s loose-limbed chatter about her match had been the perfect way to get the heady, heavy trip to Aubrey Hall out of her head. Kate was ready to be here, with her family, and root for Edwina, for as long as she lasted. 

Because when she got back to London — she needed to end things with Anthony. 

She had loved Pall Mall, the time in the country, Daff’s ball. It felt like a beginning, not an ending, if she were being truthful. 

But it was much too much, and far too close. Despite her better judgment, she found herself telling him things she’d never brought up before; she felt simultaneously frustrated and disappointed when he kept her own queries at a pleasant remove. It would be endless, absurd, therapized-American navel gazing to continue. 

He wanted a wife, and a family. She wanted an untethered life. There was no other outcome, and there had never been another outcome. The vastness, the incompleteness, of everything at Aubrey Hall — only made it clear that it was best to end it now. 

“Oooh, is that the actress from Surrey’s Place? ” Mum asked, surreptitiously pointing across the way. Mum had turned out nicely for Edwina’s first match, in a Scotch & Soda shirtdress and large Chanel sunglasses the brand had sent Edwina. “I’d wondered if we would see famous people this early in the tournament.” 

Kate peered — Ant had gone on a date with the woman in question about six weeks back, and ended it early after she mixed up Rome and Romania, which he’d bitched about endlessly. But this woman didn’t look as blonde, or as carefully worked-on. “No, I think it’s just a regular old rich woman.” She straightened the hem of her pastel Emilia Wickstead faille-print separates as she stared. 

“Speaking of, how was your time at your new friend’s hen party? Daphne?”

“Oh, this weekend? Yeah, it was, um. Good.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry I missed Friday dinner.”

“I’m not, you deserve some fun.” 

“Oh, I have loads of fun, Mum, don’t worry about me.” 

“Are you having fun right now?” A very familiar said from behind her. “If not, I believe that’s my seat.” 

She turned to see the one and only Lord Anthony Bridgerton, who was absolutely supposed to be wrapping up a brunch for three hundred at Aubrey Hall right about now. Instead he was standing on the steps of Court Simonne Matthieu, looking like a public-school Adonis in a white suit with a pale salmon shirt, baby-blue paisley-print vest, a slightly more-saturated pink pocket square, and, of course, a Panama hat and Ray Bans. Kate immediately suspected that Sophie had again played stylist — the colors were too close to her own outfit — but he was definitely proving her “Everyone looks hotter watching tennis” theory. She scrambled to stand, and to suppress the urge to either kiss him or ask if this was because she’d gotten a ticket speeding in the Jag. 

“You’re in Paris.” It was literally the only thing she could think of.

He smirked. “So are you. Easy Chunnel ride?” 

“It was fine, I hate going under — how did you find me?” It was so much more a straightforward question than why are you here . 

“Well that one was very easy — the tournament’s website lists the matches.” 

“And how did you get a ticket in my row?”

“Oh, that one’s a little harder but still easy, Kate — I called Edwina.” She turned to the court where Eddie, in an adorable Tiffany-blue Adidas-designed dress, had stopped warming up and was instead watching interestedly; Kate waved a get on then at her, and Edwina threw a wink over her shoulder as she did a toe-pop, before she ran back to the serving line. Ant cupped his mouth and yelled “ Go Little Sharma !” Turning back to Kate, he continued in a normal voice, “She said she had extra tickets and would be delighted to give me one.” He fucking called her during prep for a Major ?

“Ant —”

Quietly so that her parents wouldn’t hear, he said, “Look, it seems like you spend a lot of time and energy supporting Edwina. So I thought … well, I … I thought I could keep you company.” The simplicity of the offer — and his almost sheepish delivery — turned something in her chest. She blinked. She would never have thought to ask. Then, he brushed a bead of sweat from his face. Was he … nervous ? “But say the word and I’ll be back in London in three hours. I didn’t realize your parents would be here.”

She was still stuck on his offer when she realized she hadn’t said anything. “No. I mean. Please. Please stay.” 

“Kate, do you have some introductions to make?” Mum chirped, in a voice that indicated she certainly thought so. Kate turned slowly, and smiled. Mum, smug; Appa, shrewd. “Sure. Mum, Appa, this is my friend, Anthony Bridgerton. Anthony, I’d like you to meet my parents, Mary and Nikhil Sharma.” 

“Mrs. Sharma, Dr. Sharma — pleasure. Kate and Edwina speak so highly of you.” 

“You’ve met my younger daughter as well?” Appa asked. Protectively, she tried to view Appa through Anthony’s eyes: the tremors constantly rolling through his body, his head cocked at an awkward angle, his right side turned onto itself.  Ant betrayed no surprise or particular interest in his physicality, though, which she was grateful for. Appa had his chess-playing face on. Kate immediately tensed for an interrogation. 

“Um, Appa, we met — we became friends sort of through Eddie, actually. Well, first, coincidentally, I overlapped at uni with his brother, Ben. You remember Ben?” Mum raised an eyebrow at Kate’s bright and fast tone. “And then, well, we actually also both like to row, funny enough, so we met at the Kensington Club. But also through Edwina — Ant was also on that Black Book list together, which is when we actually, you know, learned each other’s names.”  Ant coughed quietly to get her to stop rambling. “So yes, I am friends with Ant, and Edwina is also friends with Anthony, and his family. Who I am also now friends with. Hilariously enough,” she wrapped up, tone overly bright. 

“It’s honestly not that funny of a story,” Ant murmured behind her, though his voice was fond.

Mum, though, looked wildly amused. “But … not the same type of friends, though. I hope?” 

“Well, erm, no.” Behind her, Anthony snickered. 

Appa, thankfully, was uninterested in the more salacious details. “You row, Anthony?” 

“Yes sir.” She felt Anthony straighten an inch behind her, and she smiled approvingly.

“Are you better than my Kathani?” 

She could feel Ant’s eyebrows raise — she’d never mentioned her full name. “Not really, though I’m at an advantage because it took her rig so long to get here. I’d say she beats me six out of every ten times.” 

“Do you follow tennis?” Appa gestured to the courts with the ergonomic flag, where Edwina and her opponent were having a final meeting with the ref before starting. 

“Not as much as football or F1, but I can keep track of a match. My youngest sister Hyacinth is mad about it, and I’ve seen most of Edwina’s this season.” Kate elbowed him at the implication.  

“What are your opinions on cricket?”

“Wrong, according to Kate.” 

Appa nodded, still assessing. “She’s usually right. Please, take your seat. You can sit next to me, and I’ll tell you what’s happening with the game.” It was a tone that brokered no disagreement.  

Kate stepped in and Ant followed, carefully maneuvering around Appa and his walker. Mum scooted down to the fourth seat to allow Kate to sit next to Ant, and Kate exhaled gently — Ant had passed the first gauntlet. 

Appa began explaining Edwina’s play style as well as his analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of her opponent, a fading Hungarian national champ. Ant listened carefully, asking good questions of her sports-mad father. Eventually, he gave her knee — literally, her kneecap, it was extremely proper of him —  a squeeze, and she turned to her mother, figuring there was nothing else she could do.  

“He looked shorter in the photos Felicity Denholm showed me in Waitrose,” Mum started, conversationally. 

Fuck. “You saw those?” She hadn’t been named in the photos — just referred to, in a casually racist way, as an exotically beautiful friend — so figured her parents hadn’t seen. 

“Oh gosh, weeks ago, now. It’s your life to live, Kate. I was just glad you were, you know, spending time with someone, like that. Having fun.” 

She cringed at the phrasing. “It’s not quite — anyways.” She didn’t have it in her to get into the whole agreement, not now. 

“If you say so.” Mum smiled agreeably, the conversation clearly just paused. “So, Kate. Anthony’s a viscount. And in business?” She’d done her research. Or Felicity Denholm had.  

“Um. Yeah. Real estate and development, mostly. Some investments; it’s a family company, he’s good at it and cares a lot about it.” Mum opened her mouth to say something else, and Kate cut her off with, “You shouldn’t listen to Mrs. Denholm or the Daily Mail about this stuff, Mum.” 

“I haven’t listened to Felicity since she tried to convince me poor Finnegan belonged in advanced math,” she said, politely clapping as Edwina won the first point. 

“Good. Whatever they write — that’s not him.” She felt fiercely protective, for some reason, even as the entire situation was extremely embarrassing.

“True, he’s handsomer than in those tabloid pictures.” 

Anthony’s hand tightened over her knee, a silent smirk. “He’s alright,” she responded. 

Mary’s voice lowered. “And it’s awfully kind of him to come out here, too.” 

She was quiet, and made sure that he was properly occupied by her father’s analysis. “Yes. He is.” 

Edwina won the first set handily, her feet quicker and hands surer than Kate had seen her in months. In the stands the four of them chatted easily, Mum and Appa sharing stories of Edwina’s matches growing up — one when she was five and got so bored that she did cartwheels and missed the opposing serve; one when she was seven and made a twelve-year-old cry; one when she was twelve and threw her racket at a racist heckler, the first and only time she got a yellow card. Kate chimed in with stories from chaperoning a teenaged Edwina, after her parents couldn’t travel — Edwina losing her passport in Brussels, driving on the wrong side of the road in Toronto and having a meltdown, nearly fainting in SoCal. Anthony asked questions, told jokes, cheered with the embarrassing fervor of a football dad. At the set break, Appa sent them out to get some overpriced crepes and lemonades, surely an excuse to give Mum his analysis. 

Standing in line, chatting about Aubrey Hall’s Sunday activities, he abruptly said, “So. I let the staff know that I needed our traditional family suite at the Peninsula — it’s in our portfolio — for as long as she’s in the Open.”

She snorted. “On this notice? Who did you displace?” 

“Some musician. I think Sting, he’s in town for a concert.” He shrugged blithely. She rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone to try and find out what celebrities had been spotted at the Peninsula lately. “Anyways. Kate, I came out because I wanted to talk —”

“You sure it’s Sting and not Jay-Z? I’d be mad if it was Jay and Bey,” she turned back to him, waving her phone with evidence that Jay-Z had been spotted in the vicinity. “Sorry, I interrupted you.” 

“It’s nothing. I mean, maybe it’s Jay and Bey.”

“But you’re not worried.” 

“No. Unless you want to meet them and are now mad at me.” Truthfully, she kind of was. “Anyways. You … you should stay with me.” He paused. “I mean, if Edwina doesn’t need you.” 

“She has to stay in the players’ hotel,” she replied before she fully processed the suggestion.

Oh.

And then, under the perfect May sunshine, surrounded by the most stylish people in the world, her parents chatty and warm 300 yards away, her sister killing it on the court, Kate decided to just be . She didn’t throw up all the barriers Edwina put on her time, or insist she needed to stay close to her parents, ensconced in a modest, accessible Hyatt near the stadium. She chose not to think of all his Moderately Eligible Potential Wives back in London. She didn’t clarify that this entire spontaneous Paris trip was under the banner of Just Friends. She didn’t break things off, which had been her intention less than an hour ago. 

She instead grounded herself on something more elemental and fundamental: the unruly feelings that still whirled around her, the ones telling her that he was here for her, and she liked that, and that she wanted him there. That she wanted him. It was reckless, restless, rash; she knew it wasn’t real, knew that it could only end. 

She wanted, she needed, she hoped, she ached. 

She made a choice. And for the first time in her life, Kate Sharma said fuck it . 

“I’d love to,” she replied, grinning so hard her smile felt like it would split. “Sounds grand. Literally and figuratively.” 

He looked surprised at her enthusiasm, but leaned forward and sealed it with a kiss.

Col stared at the blinking cursor on his Mac, took a sip of a cold brew, then a bite of a croissant, and stared critically at what he’d written. Highlighting several paragraphs, he hit delete, and sighed. All the words were total shit. 

It wasn’t that he was a bad writer; he was a pretty decent one, actually. He’d chronicled his travels over the last five years with videos and social media; he reckoned he could’ve monetized it if he had wanted to be a travel influencer. And he’d always been light and easy with people. He and Daff were the social ones, the ones capable of charming anyone into a good mood. 

Honestly, though, personality probably played a role — after all, having the money to buy makeup and clothes didn’t stop Daff from becoming one of London’s most in-demand influencers. Col simply never needed anything more from his travels than new experiences. He’d loved traveling, meeting new people and trying new things, but between the girls graduating uni and Daff getting engaged and the little ones becoming teens — he’d been ready to come back to London. He pictured long brunches, afternoons at the pub watching football, weekends out at Mondrich’s bars, spontaneous vacations. 

But everyone had lives. It shouldn’t have surprised him — Ant had been born responsible and Col had followed Ben and Daff’s ascents — but El had her classes and passions and Fran had John and her fellowship at the theatre. Even Pen seemed to like her job, and Greg and Hy were too cool for all of them combined. Simon had his tech investments and his football league; Sophie was a smash in the art world; and Col had been shocked to find out that Kate, with her trips to the Hague and her security clearance, was barely seven months older than him. 

He always found people to hit events and brunch with, especially on weekends, but he was surprised at how often he needed to scrounge up attendees, or plan around jobs and more important activities. 

They all, in short, had purpose. And he was … just good old Col. Dependable, funny, Col. Charming, nice Col.

And he liked this idea of his, and Pen said it was good, and he trusted Pen. He just needed to make it good, for whenever Ant reappeared from his trip to Paris. Hopefully in a good mood. 

Col wondered how that was going. Nobody had heard from him since Sunday.

“Hey there,” Freddie said from above. His best mate — who knew something about being lost in a family — was standing close to him, in large sunglasses and a cap pulled low. Two PPOs stood surreptitiously behind him. A couple of people looked strangely at him, but nobody honestly expected to see the fourth in line to the throne in a Pret near Picadilly. 

“Oy,” he said. “How’s you find me?” 

Freddie simply raised an eyebrow. “Wanna go watch the Richmond game?” 

He’d meant to get the pitch to Pen for her review today, but it could wait. He shut the laptop and grabbed the croissant to takeaway. 

Twenty minutes later they were in 5 Hertford Street — Mondrich’s hipper answer to White’s — nodding at Will, pints for both and fries for Col, the Richmond game on one TV and the Open on the other. Col checked for Ant, but it was a men’s match. Hy claimed to have seen him yesterday but nobody believed her. 

“Sterling might join,” Fred said. His hat and glasses were off, and while most patrons at 5 Hertford were discreet — plenty of celebrities and politicians were members — there were still occasional stares, because royalty was still royalty. When Fred caught one he sent smiles and a finger-gun back, causing titters. He really was the most charismatic person in his family by leaps and bounds. Every story about him — none of them were true; they were all better. Col would know; he’d been there. 

“Oh yeah?” Michael Sterling was a French-Moroccan actor they’d befriended at the last World Cup. The literal definition of tall, dark and handsome — according to Tatler — he’d been working steadily in both European and American movies, mostly bit parts in movies about sports teams or spies. He was, somehow, a distant cousin of Fran’s ex John, a coincidence but not surprising in their set. 

“Filming a movie in London for the next six months. Something about a murdery squid who falls in love with a mermaid.” 

“Sounds like a BAFTA winner.” 

“You good, mate? You look knackered. And were you … working? At that cafe?” He sounded incredulous; Col didn’t exactly blame him. 

Colin shrugged, sheepish. “Nah, I’m good. Working on pitching something to Ant, for work. I wanted to have Pen read it over so I was trying to write it all down, y’know.” 

“ Pitch something?” Freddie took a long sip and Col watched him carefully; Fred had had a dark, boozy decade of clubbing and drugs and while the Army had done him good, Col was always a little worried his friend would slip back to those habits. It had been a truly awful time — complicated because Daff kept trying to save him, until she couldn’t — so Col stayed vigilant. 

He seemed OK today though. “Yeah. You know, felt like time to … start contributing, I guess. I think I have a really entrepreneurial spirit, might as well benefit the family with it.” 

Fred snorted. He knew a thing or two about being the younger brother. He’d spent years in the Marines but, unable to be deployed, was a bit of a loose appendage. He kept busy by partying, traveling, getting in trouble, and then making charity appearances as punishment from Prince Dick. It usually backfired; the papers and the old blue-hairs loved him more afterwards. “And what’s the grand plan?” 

“It’s a … new way of traveling and building community, for young people. More aligned to our priorities.” He puffed up. “It’s proprietary right now. I would say more but …” he gestured as you know. 

Fred’s lip curled up. “But you’ll tell Penelope Featherington?” 

“Well… yeah.” 

He raised an eyebrow, like he knew something Col didn’t. “You still seeing Marina?” 

“Define ‘seeing’,” he smirked. He and Marina had dated long distance when they were too young to be serious, and she was always a lovely and soft place to land when he came home.  He always fancied a bit more romance than either Ant or Ben, both of whom Mum despaired as a bit sex-crazed; he was always keen on flowers and dates and the whole routine, though he rarely took it much farther than a night out and some heavy petting. He was fond of Marina, but they’d never spent this much time in the same time zone, and their connection was nostalgia at this point.

“Are you going with her to Pippa’s?” The Featherington wedding was in about three weeks. Both Pippa and Pru had been everywhere the last several days; Pru threw a fit at the engagement ball when her cameras were not allowed in, but Daff’s Vogue photographers were. Then, most offensively (to Portia), the Vogue photographer would not photograph any of the Featherington girls — Pierre said they weren’t Vogue material, and that that directive came from Queen Char herself. Lady Portia had yelled, do you know who I am? at some point, Cressida and Pen (of all people) had gotten into some sort of altercation, too. Pen hadn’t wanted to talk about it. 

It had, in short, been a wild night for the Featherington women. 

“God no. Staying as far away from all Old Birds as possible that night.” The Featherington sisters had earned that unsavory nickname for their social climbing and their mother’s scheming. “You should too or Pru’s gonna tell everyone she’s sleeping with you again.” 

Fred laughed merrily — both Featheringtons tried to spread that one every year. Nobody ever believed them.

They chatted through the Richmond game, yelling at Jamie Tartt when he whiffed a play and then got into it with the ref. Sterling showed up, his tawny Movie Star Looks generating nearly as much interest as Fred did, and Col slapped his back to welcome him to London, started chatting about the script for the latest film. 

“Oy,” Fred nodded to the big screen where the Open was playing. “Looks like Edwina Sharma’s game is starting.” His tone was light, and innocent, and he’d definitely planned this. 

Col side-eyed his friend, and Sterling laughed. “You’re still hung up on her, no?” the Frenchmen asked. 

“She’s nice,” Fred rebutted. “And it’s self-interest. Said I could sleep with her again if she won Wimbledon.” 

Col smirked. “So seeing how your chances are doing?” He scanned the crowd and found Ant, arm slung around Kate, in the fourth row. “Oy, there’s Ant.” Kate was wearing a crisp floral dress, Ant a light suit with a pink tie, and Col watched Kate point something out to Ant, who laughed; Kate then put her hand on his knee. 

“Nick said Ant and Kate were going really well? Bex loves her.” 

Col rolled his eyes. “I think he’s there to convince her to, you know, actually date him.” 

“An Anthony Bridgerton seduction? How many lectures does this involve?” 

“I’d say hopefully less than five, for a proper wooing. Ben says he’s going to bloody ruin it,” Colin popped a fry into his mouth. “I dunno though.” The two looked cozy but most importantly, happy. “It’d be nice if he got this one right.” 

His phone pinged with a message from Pen: “Can’t wait to see your pitch! Happy writing!” She’d added two celebration emojis. 

He really should be writing, so he stood. This Freddie detour had been a moment of weakness; he could be more responsible. “Gotta go finish something,” he said. “Work and all, you understand.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but let him go, and with a clap on the back to Sterling, he took his laptop and headed back to the cafe.

For nine days, Lord Anthony Bridgerton was a perfect gentleman.

And Edwina Sharma was on fire. 

Kate was not sure which one she was personally more surprised by. 

Ant’s ‘traditional family suite’ was predictably the poshest place she’d ever been — at least the fourth time she’d re-evaluated that mark since she met him. Nearly four thousand square feet, it had — in addition to the primary bed-bath and a living room — a dining room, a parlor, two junior bedrooms, an office, a kitchen, and four bathrooms, plus secure phone lines for whenever a head of state (or Kanye) was staying there. All the floors were marble, shipped in from Versailles, covered when necessary with priceless rugs. There was a chandelier she was pretty sure cost more than her house, and a Steinway, just because. From both the living room and the main bedroom, there were twelve-foot floor-to-ceiling windows leading out to an enormous terrace that overlooked the Eiffel Tower. 

The staff was invisible as house-elves, replacing all the flowers in the suite by the time she woke at 6:30 every morning, and leaving warm towels, croissants, and coffee behind. When she and Ant returned in the evening, there was usually a tray of Pierre Hermes patisseries waiting . The concierge was extremely interested in keeping Anthony extremely happy, and while Edwina was the first priority, there was plenty of sitting and waiting at a tennis tournament if you only cared about one player. Somehow they got an after-hours tour of the d’Orsay (Tuesday), box seats at the ballet (Wednesday), tasting-menu reservations at Giraffe (Thursday). 

Through it all Ant was … funny, and present, and kind of perfect. She supposed she couldn’t be too surprised — she’d meshed more easily with his siblings than he’d telegraphed, and now the reverse was true. Tuesday morning they went on a morning run and then he came with Kate to watch Edwina practice, telling bad jokes to keep Eddie loose as she worked with her hitting partner. Later that day, when Edwina declared she needed activities to keep her mind off the upcoming match, Kate offered to watch movies with her in her room, but Ant suggested shopping along the Rue Faubourg. Kate protested— it was a distraction— but Edwina was charmed and eagerly picked his option. Personal shoppers seemed to just emerge when they entered a shop; at Hermes, Ant bought Edwina a scarf (he offered Kate a Kelly, and she laughed before she realized he was serious, and then finally said absolutely not, are you bloody mad . He pouted, then bought himself four ties. She slipped a wallet on the wrap for herself.). He didn’t even complain when Edwina changed her mind and decided flagships be damned; she needed to cross the city and spend two hours in Shakespeare and Company.

“Rich boyfriends suit you,” Edwina laughed as they exited the bookshop, at least a dozen books wrapped up in a bag for her. “Or, I guess, you having a rich boyfriend suits me .” 

“He’s not my boyfriend, bon, and you’re welcome to date Prince Freddie again once you turn thirty.” 

But he wasn’t not acting like a boyfriend, and it was a bewildering-but-wonderful break. He asked for her opinion on his tie for Edwina’s second-round match on Wednesday morning, and then griped about inflation, politics, and the FT’s new Euro columnist between points with Appa (She really should have been less surprised that her immigrant father and rich not-boyfriend had most of the same grumbling Tory opinions about economic policy). He shared anecdotes about soap opera stars with Mum (that one was a tad annoying, as he had dated half of them). He made sure the Giraffe reservations were for four, and that the space was accessible, so her parents could join. He even — when Edwina called in the midst of a rising panic on Saturday demanding Kate and Mum’s attention — simply shrugged, told her to call if she needed food ordered, and took her father to the PSG game by himself . She didn’t think of London, of Aubrey Hall, of their real lives. She lived in the moment, and the moment was fantastic . 

Because he was overwhelmingly, physically there : holding her hand and opening the door as they entered the theatre, gripping her shoulder as they watched a tense point, fingers on her thigh as they ate dinner, arm loose around her waist as they shared pastries coming back from a run. There was an unguarded intimacy as she bit a bite from the pastry in his hand, the way his head tipped back, mesmerizingly, as he laughed at her antics. 

“You know, the first time I met you, you were extremely snarly, and now I just realize you’re soft as a pan au chocolat on the inside,” she teased, leaning forward to steal another piece. 

With a long-suffering sigh, he simply put his pastry in front of her face—her hands were full of iced coffee and her own almond croissant— so she could have more. “You told me I was an arsehole when I was trying to be nice,” he protested. 

“Not that time. The first time like … ten years ago? At some party Ben threw? I was trying to throw up into a potted plant and you yelled at me for being noisy; you were working.” Knowing what she knew now, about the illiquid estate, the image of twenty-four-year-old LSE student Anthony balancing the books at one AM on a Sunday morning hit differently. 

“Oh my god.” He threw his head back with a massive roaring laugh. “ You were Plant Girl? That plant was suffering before you and flourished after. What had you eaten? I must tell the gardeners. A legend, Sharma, always.”

She elbowed him but laughed too, something deep  that hit her marrow. “Shut up ,” she gasped, trying to maintain control. “There was that, and then I walked in on you giving some girl head at a different party — my point is, you were snarly . If only I knew the way to win you over —” purely a turn of phrase — “was amazing pastry.” 

“Well. And fantastic sex. And putting up with the many antics of my family. And a pretty great week away in Paris.” He took his pastry back and kissed her temple. 

She leaned up to kiss him softly where his jaw met his ear. “Thank you for coming out here,” she whispered against his neck. It meant a lot. 

In response, he just tightened his grip on her waist, nosed at her hair. Inhaled. 

And, Edwina was winning . 

Her feet were lightning, her attitude cocky. She flirted with the cameras, shimmied her shoulders after she scored, dared her opponents to test her. For the first part of the week, she was witty and delighted whenever the family gathered, the little sister Kate knew so well. She won the first round easily, second round easily, third round easily. International press began to show up early in the day for her matches, and stuck around for her press conferences. She’d been ‘injured’ at the US and hadn’t even tried for the Australian — so there’d been an air of mystery, excitement, confusion: Is she a one-hit wonder, and just England’s sweetheart — or are we waiting for a legend to be born ? The attention grew with every win; on mornings after her matches, Kate carefully filtered the coverage, summarized the most anodyne reporting over breakfast. 

“You’re playing really well, bon,” she remarked as she observed Thursday morning hitting practice. Edwina had always had a raw but inconsistent game, formerly always saving points through her chess-honed strategic mind, but her physical skills were becoming more consistent under the new coach. 

“Yeah,” Edwina replied, coming to the fence to rest her arms. She looked contemplative, a panoply of emotions crossing her face, as if it was just sinking in for her. Then, she settled into serenity, and beamed. “I really do think I belong here, didi. That this is what I’m meant to do.” 

She flew through the first week, losing only two games in the first two rounds. Making the front page of Sun , the Mail , even the Guardian and the Times and Du Monde . Kate watched the Instagram followers tick up again, liaised with Edwina’s agent, made sure that all media was kept at bay and that Edwina stayed focused.

But the fun was short-lasting: By the end of the week, expectations and anxiety and exhaustion had caught up to Edwina. Round four, on Sunday, was against a six-foot-tall Russian teen that Kate personally thought was quite klutzy, limbs knocking every which-way. But Edwina had seen the headlines and the tweets; she had internalized the speculation and the expectation. The game was effortful, and uneasy; Kate could see the cameras zooming in for the action shot, for the evidence of pain. Even she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears streaking Eddie’s face. 

It was a gritty win: 7-6, 4-6, 7-6. Every point was a battle, every one of Edwina’s agonizing cries cut at both Kate and Mary. Appa and Ant were both stone-faced, but even they winced a few times. It seemed to last hours, and Edwina slumped, defeated, into the press conference after. When Kate finally got to her, she seemed to barely process that she’d made the quarters. Instead of cheering or joking, she simply got her massage, then asked Kate to eat room service with her. Afterwards they watched a comedy in complete silence, Edwina occasionally sniffling. 

“I’m worried about her,” she admitted to Ant on Tuesday, the day of the match. The morning was grey and humid, and she’d woken up with a terrible feeling in her stomach, even in the perfectly opulent suite. The match was going to be well-watched — Edwina the up-and-coming reigning Wimbledon champ with a nimble foregame, her opponent the reigning U.S. Open champ, a dominant groundstroker with a solid decade of experience on Eddie. Kate adjusted his tie — a paisley one he’d picked up at Hermes, in several shades of blue. It would do well with her pale-blue poplin shirtdress from The Row, but she could hardly think about it.

“She seems more stressed,” he agreed, running a hand along her waist. “But she’s worked, you know? When the fear sets in, the training takes over. All that nonsense.” 

She twisted her mouth. “That sounds like bollocks,” she said. “But I hope you’re right.” 

“Marking this date down in history — Kate Sharma hopes I’m right.” 

But he wasn’t. Edwina crumbled , and in the stands, Kate’s heart did too. It was physically painful to watch the meltdown — there were slurping tears, heaving breaths, whining arguments with the ref, shouts of anger and despair. After a harrowing match point in the second set, Edwina sank to her knees, elbows muddying in the clay, and didn’t move for several seconds.

“Do we do something?” Mary whispered.

“What could we do, storm the court?” Kate whispered back. “All we can do is watch.” 

So they did.

She was finally put out of her misery, 2-6, 3-6. Mum and Appa saw her in the locker room and chose to go back to the hotel after; Edwina took one look at Kate and wordlessly asked her to stick around for the press conference.

So she stayed, which meant that Ant stayed. 

It was a full room — it had been an epic match, even if the score didn’t reflect, and the players had a compelling narrative, would generate clicks. Kate overheard journalists chatting in at least four languages.

Edwina sagged in, weary but also glad to be on the other side. Kate, Ant next to her, stayed pressed against the wall. Kate wasn’t sure she should be tireder, or more upset, if numb was simply ok. Ant stood close but not touching, his arm dangling close to hers. 

Wordlessly, he looped his pinky around hers. 

The badgering went on for twenty minutes. Edwina stayed composed and poised — Kate couldn’t have been prouder. She even managed to crack a few jokes. But eventually the tennis questions petered out and milder questions emerged — was she enjoying Paris? what did she think of the book she’d posted on Instagram? 

And then — “Edwina, you’ve recently become a spokesperson for Parkinson’s UKand will be speaking at their benefit in June. Can you talk about what that means to you?” 

“Sure. I mean I think it’s well enough known that my father has Parkinson’s. He was diagnosed when I was eleven and managing his care has been as much of a family affair as managing my career. But there’s loads of misinformation out there about quality of life, the prognosis, if it’s fatal, basics like that. So I’m really honored for the opportunity to raise awareness, raise funds for more research and encourage those eligible to get genetic testing done to understand their risk.” 

“Are you at risk then?” 

She shook her head. “I took the test four years ago — a total cinch, not scary at all. I’m negative for the gene my father has.” 

Well shit.

Eloise sighed, rubbing her temples. She was a good law student, and trying to track down who was posting as Lady Whistledown on Instagram should be a cinch. She’d considered paying for some hacker to track the source of the account but that would be less satisfying. 

She would do this herself. 

She’d come up with a brilliant plan: Develop a list of parties mentioned, cross-check it against her mental guest list, to see who had attended everything. The smallest event mentioned had been an eighteen-person book party that Lady Danbury had thrown; the largest Daff’s engagement ball. “Spotteds” were usually in Stories and El tried to keep a list, but she wasn’t sure if those counted since they were obviously reader submissions. Of permanent posts, El had a smaller list of tidbits that felt  obviously firsthand. In the last three months, she’d posted fifty-eight firsthand accounts, and El had been at at least forty of those parties. 

But so had half of their set. 

“Whatcha up to?” Fran asked, skipping into the living room. She looked cute in a black cropped t-shirt and black leggings El smiled because she wore the same shirt over sweatpants. “You look stressed. School?” 

“Worse. Solving mysteries.” Throwing the pen on the table with a dramatic groan, she leaned back on the couch, hoping that Fran would engage with her.  

“I didn’t know you were fancying criminal law.” Fran sat down next to her. “Where’s Pen?” 

“Probably still at the fitting for Pippa’s wedding.” She’d seen sketches of the dress; they were monstrous. “No, I’m trying to figure out who Whistledown is.” 

“Oh.” Fran wrinkled her nose. “Why?” 

“Because she’s writing about people we know!” El exclaimed. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Why someone is stalking everyone?” 

“Is this because Ant got mad about Mum’s Kate comment?” 

“No,” she insisted. Then — “maybe.” 

“He’ll get Kate to actually date him this week and then it won’t matter anymore,” Fran reassured her.  “Well. Hopefully.” 

She chewed at her lip. “She’s writing about personal matters that impact our family and friends, aren’t you curious?” El counted eighteen references to Bridgertons, mostly Ant, Ben, Daff and Mum, since launch. They were some of her more frequent subjects though certainly not her only; the Cowpers, Gorings, Fred and Nick, Lady Danbury, the older Featherington girls, the Smith-Smythes, Mortimers, Calthorpes, Cavendishes, Redbyrnes, Hiddlemans, Covingtons — plenty of families rated extensive coverage, as did some of the celebrities and politicians who’d infiltrated their ranks over the years, like Siena Rosso, Sophie’s sisters, and the Prime Minister’s stepchildren. It was undeniable in her tone and observations that this wasn’t a celebrity gossip-watcher, that she knew which forks to use. It was a small circle and El surely knew her. “And everyone’s talking about it.” 

“I guess I’m not.” Fran shrugged. “I’m keen for a cuppa. You want?” 

“Sure. But why not?” Whistledown was getting an ever-wider audience and while a locked account, seemed to have no problems accepting everyone’s follows. There were now more than thirty-thousand followers, and both the Mail and the Daily Beast ’s rota members had mentioned the account on their Twitter pages. She was a “definitive” source on soft power and relationships in modern London. “ Why don’t you care?” 

“Because we all know everything she published anyways,” Fran pointed out. “I got in there last week for talking to Edo at the ball. Everyone saw that. It wasn’t news.”

“Sure but she writes stuff before it makes the Mail or the Sun.”  

“Maybe if it was super malicious, I’d care more,” Fran poured water into the kettle, then pinned El with a shrewd look. “But why do you care? A gossip column is basically the definition of Old Society. And you hate Old Society.” 

“Yes, she is a consequence of the Establishment, so she needs to be … dismantled.” It sounded weak even to El’s ears. She honestly didn’t care to interrogate why Whistledown bothered her so much. Interrogating people, not feelings, was El’s preference. 

And, like, the Establishment was other people, the hypocrites were society. Her family, her siblings … that was a different thing entirely. 

Fran raised an eyebrow. “I’m just surprised you’re not … above it, and all.”

“I mean, she’s writing about our family and I may have strong feelings about hypocrisy, but I don’t hate any of you,” El grumbled. Honestly, she was trying to be helpful and improve people’s awareness. 

“You don’t hate us! What high praise.” When El’s face fell, Fran’s teasing stopped immediately. “Oh love.”  Fran enveloped her in a big hug. “Trust me, none of us think that. We just think you’re very, very loud and grumbly sometimes. Like Ant.” The last was delivered teasingly. 

“Never.” She shuddered, but she laughed. She certainly had more in common with Ben and even Col — but had to admit neither of them were very good or fun to argue with, and Ant was very very fun to argue with. 

God, she hoped that he was successful in France. 

“But Whistledown, she’s not like … we’ll it’s not like it was when Daff was dating Fred, for instance. Nobody’s yelling you bitch as she’s shopping to get a photo of Daff making a face.” 

“How much do you remember before all that?” El asked. “Because I honestly don’t remember a lot. Just Daff’s memories. And Ant’s.” She rolled her eyes a little; it was sometimes hard to know what was real and what she’d been told. She and Fran had been seven and eight when Papa died, and twelve and thirteen when Daff started dating Fred and Ant had to hire her a security guard. El had very little memory of any “before” when it came to people caring about what the Bridgertons were up to, and she honestly wasn’t sure if it started at Papa’s death, like Ant claimed. 

“Not much for me either,” Fran admitted. “And honesty to me Whistledown doesn’t feel much different than photos at Ascot or in Tatler or what Society is going to want and say about us anyways. We’re Bridgertons, first and always.” That would always mean something, and whether it was the people or the power or the perks — El was beginning to understand how inextricable they all were for her; how much she cared about the people. “But people are always going to care about that.” 

“And doesn’t that bother you? People feeling entitled to our story?” 

Fran squeezed El’s hand. “I’m not ever the interesting one or the one people care about, though. I see why Ant and Daff might feel differently.” 

“You’re the most interesting to me,” El said loyally. Even when the two of them were night and day. “I just … Whistledown may be pretty tame and it’s all like, modern-day Jane Austen commentary on our customs , but you know that the Mail photographer who got a photo of Kate heard it on Whistledown first.” 

Frank wrinkled her nose. “Is this whole thing some complicated apology to Daff and Ant? For making fun of them about society, or caring about society? And being a brat the entire time you were dating Dora?” The kettle whistled, and Fran began to prep cups. 

“I was not ,” she exclaimed. 

“You were insufferable. You lectured Portia Featherington on mink production at Lady Danbury’s human-trafficking gala.” 

“She’s an awful woman in general.” 

“She cannot be shamed and Ant had to pay off Pru’s producers.” Fran slid the cup to her. “So. Elaborate apology?”

“I … no. Not exactly. But it wouldn’t hurt, ” she admitted. “Now would it?” 

“To … find and expose Whistledown?” Fran twisted her mouth. “I … just don’t think they’ll care , El. They love you no matter what. And they’d accept a normal apology, with words and different choices in the future. Be less contrary for the sake of being contrary, don’t be an arse to either of them about the wedding. Just … be you. Because we love you. ”

She considered that. The only problem — well, it would be helpful if someone could tell her who she was. 

Because Dora had called her fake.  

“Maybe,” El finally said. “But I also … don’t you want to know?”

Fran gave her a knowing look — Fran could probably tell who she was — then laughed. “No, but I also let Father Christmas bring my gifts and didn’t bribe the staff with my pocket money to find out early.” She stood. “Good luck on the hunt, El.”

Fran slipped out and El sighed, staring at a note and trying to remember who she’d sat next to at the opening dinner for a play — it was either Thomas Boyd Weller, the son of a very respected West End composer that Fran had dated in secondary, or AJ Calthorpe, whose father owned two islands and had designed the Concorde jet. Mindlessly, she began to fuss with the buttons on the layout, and somehow got to a screen with a tantalizing question: 

Do you want to reset your password?  

She clicked yes, just to see where it got her. Quickly a number flashed up on the screen, all the numbers asterisked out except for the last one. 

Her first clue! It was deeply delightful. Flipping to her phone, she carefully checked every number in her contacts. 

Twenty minutes later, she had a list of possibilities.

Now we’re in business , she thought triumphantly.

She was going to solve this mystery.

Ant was quiet as they started their drive back to the Peninsula. “There’s a genetic test for Parkinson’s?” he finally asked, his voice sounding deceptively light.

“For some forms.” She turned, looking at him directly for the first time since Edwina’s comment. The evening light glowed against his face. He really was just so handsome . “It’s usually a mutation, not heritable. But the version Appa has is autosomal-dominant.” 

His eyes stayed straight ahead. “Meaning …” 

“It’s one that you inherit from a single parent, and can be passed on. So if you have the gene, you’re going to get PD, and also be a carrier. Our great-grandmother had it so our grandfather had it so our dad has it.” 

“Ah.” 

Kate began to twist her bracelet, rubbed her fingers through her skirt. He wasn’t going to talk so she kept talking. “Given her career literally depends on her reflexes, Edwina thought it would be prudent to take the test.” Her neck was itchy; she reached up to scratch it. 

“Ah.” Still on the road. “And you …” 

Her hands stilled. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to go through life thinking every hand tremor is the start of my decline.” 

He looked like he didn’t know how to respond to that. She shifted, and turned back to the window.

Why did she feel like she had done something wrong ?

They reached the hotel not too much later, valeted the Tesla and wordlessly headed upstairs. The sun was vivid over the Eiffel Tower, the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows a postcard, but after Edwina’s defeat, she couldn’t appreciate it.

Anthony headed to the bar cart as she flopped on the couch, and poured them both a few fingers of Scotch. Setting hers on the marble coffee table, he knocked his back in a single pull and sat quietly for a few minutes. He looked dazed, a little lost, himself. She didn’t move or acknowledge him, just closed her eyes and tried to breathe herself down from the day. He reached over, silently massaged a knot in her neck.

She was still drifting through the sensation, though, when he stopped. Abruptly, he put his glass down, and stood. She looked up; he looked deep in thought and … nervous? Upset? She couldn’t tell, and reached for her glass as he began to pace. “I think it’s best if we actually. You know. Have a relationship,” he finally announced. 

She choked on the Scotch. And suddenly, she understood what Anthony meant when he talked about the gilded cage of his life. She felt claustrophobic in this space, out of place in the whole tableau, everything worse because she was still shaking from Edwina’s defeat. Everything worse because she didn’t recognize this blunt, simmering, cold man. 

“What?” She wheezed, rubbing her chest to try and get liquid down. 

“We’re not really abiding by our ‘we’ll hook up and date other people’ agreement, are we? I am stringing along the prime minister’s very boring stepdaughter. Despite your insistence you don’t have the time, you are not not dating me. All of our families think it’s ridiculous. Edwina laughed for thirty seconds when I called; my siblings all talk about us constantly. So. We can make it official. I can kick out Ben and Col, you can move in.” 

He didn’t even like his apartment, what the hell? She sat up to stare at him, and in that moment she knew three things, with devastating clarity: 

She had, stupidly and unknowingly and against scads of her good judgment, fallen in love with this ridiculous man. Absolutely, fully, unrelentingly, in love with Anthony Bridgerton. 

And

He did not love her back. 

And

And she knew that she absolutely could not handle a lifetime of that imbalance.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

She’d ruined everything . 

“Excuse me?” she finally said. Her throat felt dry. Her pulse throbbed behind her ears, and she scratched her index fingers along her temples. She could feel a headache creeping in. 

He started to pace again, a reverse of their typical coping mechanisms. “I’d really like to understand why you won’t take the PD test —” 

“—You can’t just order me—”

“—Of course it’s not something my affection is contingent on—”

“—Your affection —” She raised her hands, frantically trying to slow him down, to slow down the emotions. This was so bad; this was terrible.  

“—But I have to ask, is this the reason you’re opposed to kids? I mean honestly, is it like the fear of passing it on or getting it yourself —”

“—That is none of your business—”

“—I actually think it is my business, why didn’t you ever mention that you could —” He seemed controlled, but somehow more agitated than she’d ever seen him, honestly, about something that he shouldn’t care about at all. 

“Anthony!” she yelled, then paused. The level of possession over his family line was simply infuriating. She stood, he sat. Linked his hands between his legs, leaned forward with his elbows on knees.  “I can not date you, Anthony Bridgerton.” It was the simplest distillation of the million things she was feeling.

“Why ever not?” he drawled, seeming genuinely confused.  

“Why n— you don’t want to date me!” She threw her hands on her hips, and started to pace now. 

“I never said —” 

What the fuck. She stopped, and turned. “You literally said, Kate Sharma, I do not want to marry you .” All of his Reasons, with a capital R, of why she was not an acceptable wife, of how she didn’t fit in with his world, of why his life surely didn’t match his assumptions of her tastes or goals. 

“Oh,” he shrugged. “I mean. We both know, contracts can be amended.” 

Her eyes widened — was that a fucking proposal? Now suddenly, she’d do ? “Not without consent of both parties.” She scoffed. “And, no. If it wasn’t clear. I do not consent.” 

“OK, let’s be rational —” He stepped back, tried to calm down, but now she was wound up. 

“— I absolutely am. You just assume I’m going to, what, fall over and agree to this? Because you’ve changed your mind ? Your money can’t control everything, Ant!” 

“I don’t think this is about my money!” he shouted back, his voice finally rising to match her pitch. “Yes, I’ve changed my mind. Yes, I think we should revisit our agreement. That is hardly revolutionary.” 

“It is for you!” She struggled to keep her tone and emotions in check. This was not supposed to be happening, and it was not supposed to happen like this. “And I don’t just change my mind because you did. You get everything you want because you’re a Bridgerton with all your Bridgerton money and power.” She paused. “And you definitely don’t get me for those reasons.” 

He was silent. “Is this about me thinking that my money can control everything, or you simply disliking anything that’s out of your control?” 

“Excuse me?” 

He made a wild everything gesture, with an eye roll to boot. He was so terribly dry, and removed, while her entire world felt like it was disintegrating to nothingness. “Your dad’s illness. Edwina’s performance today. You hate anything that is remotely out of your control. You sit and you seethe and you … you fix and you fixate.” There was a confident curl to his words; any other circumstances and he would be teasing You’re smarter than that Sharma . 

She stared at him, jaw hanging at the wildness of his assertions. “Have you ever just been told no ?” 

He finally exploded— she had yelled first but he was now too, fists coiled and body shaking with barely controlled fury. “Oh come off it, Kate! You know there are a million examples where I don’t just get things because I’m a Bridgerton.”  The petulance made her feel more mulish than anything else. “Money didn’t stop my dad from dying, for instance.” He was spitting, petty. Mad. Mad at her. 

“No, but somehow, his death and his legacy defines you!” Her tone cracked, sorrowfully. It still felt unfair, that Ant took on all of this, that he tied his worth and value to the impossible perfection of a dead man. 

“I inherited his title! It literally does define me!” 

She snorted, tears beginning to prick. “You don’t know what defines you. Or what you want ! You say you want a wife, you say you don’t want to be with me, and then you just decide you do . You’re just so used to your money and privilege and title and responsibilities explaining things for you that you don’t even know how to figure out what you want.” 

He seemed to be quelling something, maybe trying not to completely lose his shit. “I hardly think that’s fair—” he started again, his voice back in the realm of Extremely Reasonable as he physically minimized her point away. 

“Fair? You’ve spent the last three months fucking me while going on dates with every shoe designer, and Instagram model, every titled and entitled kindergarten teacher in London and none of them were interesting so what, I’m just here ?” 

“Of course not.” He practically stamped his foot. “Just looking at this, rationally —” 

Suddenly, everything clicked. The wonderful suite. The seemingly unconditional support. The fantastic last week together, after the highs and lows of Aubrey Hall. “— Wait. What was this past week, some long-con persuasion tactic? ‘See, Kate, here are all the perks of my terribly caged life, now that I’ve decided it’s just easier to date you, won’t you go along with it?’ Is that it?” 

He stiffened. “It was not a long con.” 

“Then what the hell was it, Anthony?” 

“Why won’t you get the genetic test?” he yelled. He blinked, and looked away. There was something wounded, searching, in his tone.

She took a deep breath. She was so tired of explaining herself, asserting her human need to be unburdened. “I’ve had the worst thing in the world happen to me, too — my mother was killed, right in front of me. Same as you. You know. You know that your life will change in an instant whether or not you want it to.”

“I do,” he whispered, and it was so tender it hurt. 

She swallowed. “I now spend so much of my time managing care for my dad, taking care of him, making sure we keep our house. I don’t want to wonder if every time I yawn I’m beginning my decline. Besides — ” she swallowed — “knowing I’m positive won’t change what will happen — and it doesn’t create any certainty in an uncertain world. I could be positive and still die in a car accident.” 

“Of course. But it honestly sounds like you’re assuming that a genetic test — that you won’t get — will come back positive. And that you’re just living a half-life under that utter cloud .”

“I do not, but I do think it’s a possible outcome. Because it is , and if it’s positive, then what? So I lead a full life, and as much of it as possible is what I make of it, knowing that so much of it is outside my control.” 

“You say that but you still move back, you schlep around Europe after Edwina. How many choices have you made because you think, maybe one day I’ll get this disease that’s taken over my life for a decade already. And only do what’s in your control .”

She froze. “Absolutely none.” 

He searched her face. “I don’t think you actually believe that. And I don’t believe you.” 

Her mouth drew into a line, closing herself up from him as much as possible. “You don’t have to.” 

“I think you tell yourself that you just want an unencumbered life, a free life of your own agency, ” he was clearly repeating her words, “but you’re just avoiding things. Scared of hurting people, of getting hurt. I mean, you compartmentalize everything. I’ve slept beside you almost every night for three months and I barely know you.” He was plaintive, but pointed. Somehow, over the last three months, he’d learned her. 

Instead of feeling comforting, it felt like a slap to the face. Furiously, she responded, “ You barely know yourself.”

He seemed to take offense, and straightened right back, affronted. “I know myself just fine.” 

“You know your duty,” she rebutted. Her arguments were devolving into something feral and petty; her bosses would never let her argue a case from such an emotional state.“And you cling to it. Don’t judge me for wanting different things.” 

“And you’re not being judgmental, at all?” 

“I am not,” she swore. 

“ Why won’t you take the bloody test?” His voice a strangle of betrayal, his body shaking with fury. 

“It doesn’t matter to you!” 

“It matters to you! ”

“You have no grounds to care there, given that you want a marriage that is basically a separate-lives, separate-beds arrangement from the start. Don’t get mad if I choose not to tell you things after you have made it clear that you don’t want to know those things.” 

The statement seemed to literally set him back on his heels. “I have been clear that I have a duty, and that I made my plans to align with those.”

“The way you all talk about your father, and a relationship that was so loving your parents had eight children  — and then Daff and Si, and Nick and Bex, those examples and you still think the only way to have value and fulfill your duty is a marriage where you barely interact with your partner? You think all those people actively set themselves up for misery, hmm? That they feel as trapped as you do? Why is that the life you want? Have you ever truly thought about that?”

She realized, distantly, that they were flinging words and insinuations with terrible precision: normally when she disagreed with someone, she wore them down, or took pity on their lesser passions and gifts and back off, or — most often — inevitably dominated with her stubbornness and thoroughness. Anthony possessed all those same qualities too, though, and the sheer power of their skills and emotions and intelligence and loyalty and fierceness, the things they shared that had connected them before they realized it — all those boomeranged brutally back on them. 

And despite her strong belief that he did not really know what he wanted, and his complaints that he did not know her at all, they knew exactly where softness lay, they knew how to uncover and tweak it in order to wound, knew how to apply their professional capabilities to devastating results. Despite her best efforts to contain her feelings and impressions — he was right on that count — he knew her well; there was a primal, shared understanding that had never needed words.

Until it did, and they didn’t have them. Even if she wanted to back down now, she simply could not, and she knew that he could not, either. They both knew they were doomed to see this fight through to the end. 

It was dangerous to know someone so intimately and completely. 

To love them, she corrected herself. 

“That’s not what — They had different circumstances , for god’s sake, Kate,” he sputtered, impatient, again. Minimizing, again. Not answering the question, again. She wanted to scream. “And I would never — a life with you isn’t miserable. At all. Dear god.” His eyes softened, softening her resolve just a smidge. She knew that he wouldn’t find a life with her unbearable, knew that he would enjoy it quite a bit. 

But it would be settling, for something he said he did not want. And it would be living in an imbalance, and that was the worst kind of relationship. 

She’d rather have no Anthony than one she loved, that could not love her back. 

“I think you’re foolish,” she said, finally moving into their bedroom to try and pack as quickly as possible. “And I think the cage you feel is entirely of your own making, and you’re too arrogant to admit that.” 

“If I’m foolish and arrogant, you’re stubborn and inflexible  … Where — where are you going?” he asked, voice caught, following her, but hovering in the doorframe, as if he was too scared to come closer. 

“My parents’. Edwina’s. Anywhere,” she hissed. She started to throw all the beautiful, expensive dresses that she’d collected over the last several months into her bags. She was so tired, and so done, and this had ended exactly the way she had expected it to, and yet was somehow a thousand times worse. “ Away, Anthony.” 

He pushed off the doorframe with a noise somewhere between a shout and a groan and a growl. “Enjoy your freedom .”

“Enjoy your cage, ” she yelled back, then finally sat down on the bed to sob. 

When she left ten minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen. 

Chapter Text

"I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all." — 10 Things I Hate About You

“Colin! Daphne! Eloise!” Ant bellowed, barrelling out of the study and through the infernally long hallways of Bridgerton House. It was ten past; surely all were present. “We must speak!” He repeated it twice for emphasis as he barreled down the stairs; he wanted them to be sure they knew they were in for it. 

“Yes, Anthony ?” Ben returned archly as Ant practically tripped into the room. He surveyed the tableau: Hy and Fran watching something on a phone; Greg and Si running through maths; Violet and Daff going through some wedding binders; Ben, Col, and El chatting on the floor.

“You’re here, darling?” Mother asked. “We thought you were running late.” 

He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t sleep. So I came over here to finish the accounts.” 

“When did you get here?” Hy asked, absolutely confused.

“Six,” he replied. “Colin. Daphne. Eloise.” 

“ Yes, Anthony?” Daff asked, impatiently. “How have we spent too much money this time?” 

He glared. “Can you explain why there is an additional charge of four thousand pounds at Little Bevan?” 

“Mama and I decided we needed two more flower girls so we asked Lady Danbury’s granddaughters.” 

“You already had three flower girls in two-thousand-pound bespoke dresses.” 

“We thought the pictures would look better with five .” Daff looked unrepentant. “Lady Danbury is Simon’s godmother and a dear family friend; it’s a sign of gratitude .”

“And you ,” he rounded on Col, “what is this Van Cleef and Arpels charge? The receipt says ‘rose gold and ruby, frivole pendant’ — for whom?” This was ridiculous even for Colin. 

“I, uh, needed to say thank-you to Pen for something,” his brother sputtered. 

“For bloody what ?” El asked. 

“I really can’t say, yet,” Col replied pompously. El reached out and flicked his ear. 

“She’s our flatmate, you can’t have sex with her,” Fran told him. El flicked her ear, too. 

He’d rather Col give Pen a necklace than sleep with her. Still — “three thousand pounds and she better have donated a kidney. And you.” He turned to El. “Two thousand pounds at a bookstore? Did you purchase the shop?”

“It’s the law bookstore and they’re all textbooks!” she exclaimed. “God, can’t you fucking just call Kate up and apologize ?” 

The entire room went still. He’d been back in London since late Wednesday night. Ben had been up, slightly stoned, when Ant returned; he  thought he was hallucinating, as Ant hadn’t been to the flat in nearly a month. In the intervening three days, news of his bad mood filtered out to all his siblings, and not one had mentioned Kate. 

Until now. 

He took a deep breath. “If that is the purpose of the call, I can’t. Because I have nothing to apologize for.” 

Well, he had a little, but he’d prefer Kate to go first. 

“Ant,” his mother asked, her tone too empathetic. He bloody hated it. “What happened ?” 

He huffed, crossing his arms. “I followed Daff’s superb advice, apparently endorsed by at least half this lot. In doing so, Kate and I made the decision to … end our friendship.” He was well aware all his siblings thought Kate was funnier, more fun, and cooler than him, and so he at least had mentally braced for the round of groans. 

“Mate, you weren’t friends, and I want you to know that Hy and I were not invited to the vote.” Greg sounded pissed, more than anything, that he hadn’t been included. 

“Don’t pin your bad decisions on me — next time you don’t come up with a contract in place of a relationship,” Daff snarked.

“Contracts are legal documents, which you should know since you keep signing them!” 

“You know, Lady Vi,” Simon said, both he and Ben scrambling to their feet as all hell broke loose. “I think it might be better if Ben and I took Ant out for brunch at Cecconi’s.” 

“Yes, that sounds prudent,” Lady Vi said, patting Daff’s arm as the boys began to shove Ant toward the door.

“Ant,” Fran called from behind them. He turned, briefly, and she hugged him. “I’m really sorry you got the shit kicked out of you.” 

They walked in fast, tense silence for a few minutes until — “Why didn’t you just go rowing this morning, Ant? If you needed to burn energy?” Ben asked as they crossed Aubrey Place Road. Anthony just flexed his jaw. 

Si snorted. “Are you really going to give up the entire River fucking Thames in this argument?” he asked. “What about the Kensington Club?” 

He stared at his feet. “The Club is Edwina’s training base and she’s back till Wimbledon —” The Sun had run photos of her smiling and waving at St. Pancras, a wan Kate in the background — “so it’s best I avoid it for a few weeks, actually.”  

Simon was silent, then clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re going to get you a full English and a beer and then I’m sorry, mate, but you have to talk.” 

Inside the restaurant, Ant sank into a jade-green velvet banquette, and waited for their regular waitress to bring their usual. After a few sips of Guinness, as promised, Ben said, “Alright. Last we saw you, you and Kate were canoodling in front of Tatler .” 

Ant groaned. Canoodling felt extreme, but she really had just … been nearby all night, charming people and laughing at their jokes, then making him laugh with her under-the-breath comments. He’d been so stressed about the party, and their conversation in the study, and she’d just … slipped a thumb gently on a pulsepoint whenever he got stuck in conversation. Squeezed his fingers in gratitude when he slid his arm around her waist. Somehow always in his peripheral vision, her damned perfume always in his olfactory nerves. 

He sighed. “You probably could surmise that Kate and I …” 

“ Broke. Up ,” Si said, enunciating clearly. “Savor the words. Marinate in them. Accept them.” 

“— Are no longer going to be spending time together,” he finished. “And this is your fiance's fault.”

Ben snorted. “I told them not to meddle,” he said as if to absolve himself, digging into his smoked salmon benedict. 

“I will still find a way to blame you.” 

Si rolled his eyes and took a sip of his bloody Mary. “So Daff convinces you to go to Paris …” 

“Yeah, I decided to see if Kate was interested in making everything … official.” He twirled a fork. “I mean, we weren’t actually dating others. And, you know — Daff had a point, she … was still coming around, you know?” His voice trailed off. “The parties, the Pall Mall … she was sporting about it.” Women — everyone really — only came in three categories: those who were in his world and enjoyed the game; those outside who were interested only to get on the inside for their own benefit; those on the outside who preferred the outside.

He’d tricked himself, toward the end, that Kate was exceptional.  

“She has the exact same level of interest in and perspective on parties and Society as you did,” Ben said pointedly. 

He rolled his eyes. “So when I got there …” He took a bite. “I got there, and her parents were there, too.”

“ What ?” That was both of them. 

“Yeah, they’re very ‘call us Nik and Mary,’ you know?” he asked. “They’re great, Nik was kind of like, typical father —” Simon snorted, “But I think I did well with his questions. Anyways — first day, kind of thrown by them, so … I just asked her to come stay with me. Instead of having a big grand talk.”

“Then, you were there for more than a week.” 

Very carefully, he sliced a sausage into thin coins. “Edwina kept winning, so we stuck around. I tried to walk her into it — dinner, the D’Orsay, the ballet, an FSG game with her dad …” His mind wandered. “It was great. She was in a good mood, we were …” He smirked, remembering. “Things were good .” 

“So how’d we get from there to chewing out El for buying books?” 

He sighed. “Edwina lost, I found out Kate … wasn’t forthcoming about something important, it was our last day.” He sighed. “And so by the time I broached … amending our agreement, it just … it was too late. It became a fight.” He dragged a potato through ketchup. “She called me a posh git, basically, I … said that she just fixated on fixing things. It escalated quickly.” 

“Did you say ‘amending our agreement’,” Ben scoffed, at the same time Simon asked, “What was she lying about?” 

“Not lying, just not … being forthcoming. It doesn’t matter.” If Kate could go three months without mentioning the PD risks to him, she didn’t want Simon to know.  It was truly impossible to describe the pull of fear that had tugged at him when he found out there was a high risk for her, the confusion when he learned she wouldn’t take a test, the sharp, particular hurt he felt at her omission — or the way his mind had been held hostage by those emotions since then. His tone was strong enough that Simon backed down. “And I … made an airtight case.” 

“Told you,” Ben groaned to Simon. “Learned nothing. Let me guess, instead of ‘I’m falling for you,’ you said something dashing and romantic like, contracts can be renegotiated ?” 

He bristled. “Kate is extremely rational and I thought —”

“—her sister just lost one of the biggest matches of her career!” Ben got out. “Come on .” 

He felt stubborn. “I played it safe. There were unknowns about what she was open to. And clearly, those concerns were prudent.” 

“Your concerns?” 

“I want a wife .” He carefully mashed some beans clean into paste. “Kate has been clear that she wants an unencumbered life, that the most she wants is a bit of a companion.” He realized how similar that sounded to his vision of a marriage, and a headache throbbed between his ears. “In the end, it’s baseline incompatibility.” 

“And explain what you mean when you say you want a wife,” Simon asked. 

“My god, again?” he groaned, but it was a bit of a front: Easier to be annoyed than to admit that repeating all this, diving into it, was actual torture. “Partnership in my duties, children , someone to carry on the Bridgerton name in society.” 

“What does that mean to you, though?” Ben pushed. “Mum and Dad were in society . They also had babies in nappies for quite literally their entire marriage, and probably went to ten parties a year during that time. Hell, they raised us in Canterbury! We didn’t move to London until you went to Eton.” 

“So, kids were the non-negotiable? Or that definition of a marriage?” Si asked.  

“ All of it,” he insisted, but he was no longer sure of what they had shouted at each other. “Certainly kids.” 

“Do you want kids, independent from the title?” Si pushed. Ant raised an eyebrow; that had been a whole conversation for Si and Daff, given Simon’s atrocious upbringing. “Want them, independent of any person? I’d be happy to kill off the Hastings line, they only sound tolerable if Daff’s there with me.” God help him, a dopey smile crossed his face. “Or on the flip, if Kate wanted to be with you but certain she didn’t want kids, what would you say?” 

“For me — yes. On the kids. Yes.” He had never not imagined having children. His father and responsibility obviously played into it — he was the firstborn of a firstborn sixteen times over, and it was the surest way to honor his father. He always fulfilled his obligations. 

But he had always known that he enjoyed his siblings and all their phases of growth more than most men in his position would. He taught Col to ride a bike and Ben to hold his drink; he’d played more games of ‘tea party’ than he could count with the girls. He was the one Greg wanted to do drop-off during nursery; ‘An-An’ had been Hy’s third word.  could complain mightily about the responsibility and their general deficiencies, but he’d always enjoyed them, even when they were at their most aggravating. 

And then last year, Georgina came along. Nick’s daughter — and heir — had been born on Christmas Day, and he’d met her in a cozy sitting room in Kensington Palace on New Year’s Eve. There had been something immediately enchanting in every yawn and giggle, the way her cloudy eyes had focused on him after she grabbed his finger. When he realized he needed a wife to help ascend within Bridgerton Group, a wife to stop being named to ridiculous Tatler lists, a wife because it was past time — he also could tell himself, in the dead of night, that he would at least like being a father. Quite a bit. 

Of course, the topic was also fucking terrifying: it was unsettling, to  bring someone into the world and know that you would one day leave them. And he knew that “terrifying but probably time” was hardly an appealing frame, so he didn’t actually say it out loud. He barely said it to himself.  

But Kate had accused him of not knowing what he wanted; and that didn’t feel quite fair. Because the longer he thought about it, the stronger the urge was, sharp and particular and clear. 

He didn’t know if she truly didn’t want children or if she was simply eliminating the genetic risk on her quest for an unencumbered life. He’d replayed their conversations over and over in his head, but he didn’t trust his memories, didn’t even necessarily trust her to have told him the true reasons. 

But he did know that if she wasn’t going to get tested, her position on kids wouldn’t change — she could talk a good game on living in the moment, but he was entirely confident she wouldn’t take that genetic gamble. And something told him that she wouldn’t want to put a child in the position she was in, of a caretaker-child. 

So he didn’t know how, in Si’s scenario, he’d respond.

Why wouldn’t she get the bloody test?  

“And she doesn’t want attachments? Or Society?” 

“Attachments. Her career’s important. Says she likes picking up and moving in a minute.” He chomped at a banger. “Which makes no sense because the only places she goes are where Edwina’s playing.” 

“And so she told you … that you’re a posh git, after you asked her to renegotiate a contract; you told her she was a control freak, after she freaked out when her sister lost,” Ben summarized. “Which — everyone agrees she’s a control freak, and we also all think you’re a posh git, too.” In response, Ant threw a napkin at his brother. 

“None of this sounds unforgivable,” Simon agreed. “Just tell her you’re in love with her and you’re sorry. If you want to get married — to anyone — one fight in Paris is a blip.” 

He scoffed. “In love with her?” 

Si cocked his head. “How would you describe her feelings toward her? Not the relationship, your feelings?” 

He sighed. “She’s a friend, truly.” 

“You want to tell her things, get her take before you make a decision? Make her feel better when she’s pissed? Compare notes after a party and laugh at Pru Featherington?”

“Yes, exactly,” he nodded. He thought of others: wanted to dance in the kitchen to Beyoncé after she goaded him for not having current tastes in anything; wanted to see her delighted, knowing smile when someone said something ridiculous at a party; wanted to order from whatever delicious restaurant she’d discovered that week; wanted to hold her hand during a tense point of Edwina’s. “Friends.” It felt paltry.

Simon shook his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but when you’re sleeping with someone, and she’s the person you want to mock Prudence Featherington with, you are in love.” 

“That is the clinical definition,” Ben added, faux-solemnly. 

“Regardless of what terms you want to put on it, it was a very final decision. And her omission …” he sighed, then tried to start again. That was the thing that he simply kept returning to — the magnitude of what she chose to carry by herself, the bright bold fear that still gripped him if he thought too hard about her health. They spent fourteen days together with their respective families, splitting croissants and Pall Mall strategies. Sharing (he thought) confessions in a library, sharing looks across a ballroom floor. Load balancing the labor of their siblings. And she never brought this up. “You have to know someone to be in love with them.” He did not even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

Ben’s brow crinkled. “Is she OK?”

“I — yes, of course,” he said. 

“Good,” Ben’s tone was knowing. “Because if she had a love child I would sound like an arse when I say, this is a you problem.” 

“What?” 

“It’s why I couldn’t go along with the majority vote,” he shrugged. “Now, it’s Kate so she was viciously specific: Why did she call you a posh git?”  

“That I think my money can control everything, that I’m the one locking myself in a cage, that I don’t know what I want or why.” He winced as he repeated the words. They still hurt. 

Ben stared at him, clearly willing him to make connections. “And what item in that list is wrong?” 

“I know what I want!” he protested. “They certainly aren’t a full or fair story.” 

“But they’re not wrong.” 

“And you don’t understand what it’s like to carry a title.” 

“I do,” Si pointed out. “And I’m literally trying to convince Daff to sell Clyvedon. Nick definitely does, and he still managed to get married for love.” 

“That took eight years, though, and was exhausting. I don’t have that in me again.” 

“That’s very true,” Si replied sagely. 

“Just out of curiosity — how different were Kate’s reasons than, say, Siena’s?” Ben asked.

He waved his hands. “No. No . Completely different situations.” And he hadn’t proposed to Kate. Merely … propositioned her. 

“In what way?” Ben challenged, and Ant simply glared back. 

“I reckon it’s because he was in love with Kate, but not Siena,” Si said to Ben, in an annoyingly knowing tone. 

“You know, Si, have you ever noticed,” Ben asked, with an exaggerated tap on his lip, “when he’s interested in a woman, he somehow has a major fight with them, only to never speak with them again?” 

“Enough!” 

“My point is, you’re always mad at the bird you’re dating when you break up, insisting they don’t under stand you and it’s a matter of finding someone who does,” Ben pointed out. “I’m saying it’s perhaps time you change your perspective. Do that and perhaps all of this gets easier to see.” 

“He’s right. You know to ask why it happens,” Si pointed out. “It’s not hard to figure out. You’re just not that interesting.”

“You’re just a straight white bloke with a lot of money and a title and a crazy family,” Ben added, with quite the smug smirk for one of the craziest members of said family. 

“Kate did feel different, though,” Simon mused to Ben. Ant felt thoroughly cut out of his own brunch. 

“God knows we saw her more. Siena I only ever saw in the flat. You?” 

“Occasionally out at a club. Daff thought she was indiscreet, so I thought that’s why we didn’t hang out much.” 

“No, I don’t think he really brought her around. And then Kate, he drags out to the country.” 

“Rosencrantz. Guildenstern. Enough.” Ant shifted in his seat. They had a point about the pattern and — he hated to admit — where Kate broke it. And she won points in their fight, he wasn’t too proud to admit that. And he’d been spinning from the damn testing news — obviously, that had been poor timing, for both of them. He knew all that. 

But he couldn’t have been in love with her. You had to know someone to love them. He thought he did but … clearly not. 

And if she was in love with him — if he even mattered to her — she would have shared about the genetics. 

“To be clear, easy as you are to wind up, we’re sorry that you’re in this state, mate,” Si said. 

“We just think maybe this time, you should think about where you might have fucked this one up.” 

“Just talk to her,” Si suggested.

“No,” he replied. “I … I can’t. Not yet.” 

“Well, too bad,” Ben said. “Because Ascot kicks off Tuesday, and Bex invited her to Ladies’ Day. So you’re going to see her in … four days.”

As soon as she’d changed out of her gogo boots, Daff started scrolling her phone for behind-the-scenes content — contractually she needed five. The files the photographer had already sent were much better than anything she took, but she started with a selfie, which had a great close-up on the plummy merlot lippie. For authenticity. 

Once the first shot was posted, she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. Something on that infernal Whistledown instagram about Lady Portia’s prep for Pippa’s wedding, and the timelessness of the cliche of the striving mama. A Live from Hy, again in the bathrooms at City of London. And a teasing post from Soph — at Art Basel for work — featuring a smirking Ben, also at the auction, in front of some sort of water-sculpture art, accompanied by the droplet emoji. 

She frowned. The best thing for the two of them would be for Sophie to officially accept the job in Italy — then, either Ben would realize what he had with her, or Sophie would be free to truly move on with her life. Perhaps Daff should ring her and have a chat. 

“What did you think, Daff?” Alice Tedbury, Britain’s most famous makeup artist, asked, startling Daff out of the social-media fog. 

Daff’s eyes snapped up, and she caught her reflection in the mirror, her cinnamon hair still in an elaborate Brigitte Bardot, her face fully glam. It was a striking contrast to the comfy, baby-pink Adidas x Stella McCartney yoga set she’d slipped on.  Behind them, the photographer’s assistants deconstructed the shoot, someone from Marketing raided the craft table. 

“It’s all so perfect I can hardly breathe,” she beamed.

The lipstick was part of her Daphne by Alice line, the first product that she wasn’t just supporting or modeling for, but had weighed in on every stage of the development, down to both picking the final twelve colors and the packaging to today’s ‘Swinging London’ photoshoot. In six weeks they would be in every Selfridge’s and Alice Tedbury store in England. 

“You looked gorgeous. My girls did a great job on your face.” 

“I love it. Promise me you’ll do exactly the same for my wedding look,” she instructed Alice, bagging an extra of the reddest one for Fran. She checked her Cartier watch; she really needed to be going. 

“Of course,” Alice said, but Daff was already distracted by something behind her: The street door opening and Simon, casual in jeans and Cingo trainers, slipping through.

“Baby!” she exclaimed. “What a nice surprise.” 

He smiled. “I was in the area getting coffee with the carbon-travel guys —” Simon’s fund had just given another round away to startups, including to a team that traded air miles in carbon-swap markets — “and figured I could see the shoot.” He bopped back on his heels, hands in pockets. “Looks like I’m too late, I’m sorry.” 

She reached up to peck him on the lips. “You can still take me home, lucky you.” And with a wave to Alice and thank-you’s to the crew they headed out. 

The studio was only a fifteen-minute walk to their funky, five-story townhouse on St. James Place, so they headed back that way. Hastings House had been part of Simon’s inheritance but he’d let it languish in his decade away from London; they’d spent the last year making it modern, bright, dynamic and fun , with a Queen of Hearts-themed powder room and an entertainment room with Si’s old football jerseys framed on the walls and a wild city garden. Simon carried her bag and asked about the shoot, and she happily gushed about the lip colors and the photos and the assistant’s funny jokes. “Really such a great start to the week,” she smiled. “And now we go to Ascot.” She sighed, heavily, as he punched in the code to their gate. 

Ascot was usually one of her favorite weeks of the year. Si only came for a day — he always claimed work or football or mates, and she knew better than to ask for more. She understood; it could be overwhelming, and Simon, while he loved betting and the lobster sandwiches, still wore his title uneasily, and the older generation brought his shyness back out. But he always did Ladies’ Day for her: Nick and Bex had reserved them Royal Stand tickets and she’d selected a new vest for him to complement the outfit she planned to wear. She couldn’t wait. 

No, it was her brother that was spoiling her mood: Ant would definitely show on Ladies’ Day — Eleanor was his godmother, and the day was for him — and while Si said he had calmed down by the end of brunch yesterday, Ant had a particular skill at making everyone around him feel exactly like how he was feeling, for better or worse. 

“Are you planning on going every day?” Si brought her out of her reverie. 

“No, just the first three,” she replied. “Mama wants to go tomorrow.” She rolled her eyes a bit, dropped her purse on the counter. 

“Ah, and it’s the thought of all that society, everyone complementing your clothes, everyone asking you about the wedding or catching you up with the latest gossip or learning about your Alice Tedbury line, so terrible.” He took off his shoes as he teased. 

“Honestly it’s Ladies’ Day, and Ant. He’s going to be completely ridiculous about Kate.”

He straightened, and raised an eyebrow. “Well, Bex invited her into the box. So at least he may be too preoccupied to lose his shit on you.” 

“With me!?” she exclaimed. “I just told him to go talk to Kate, as he clearly had feelings for her! I bear zero responsibility for what happened next. He’s being ridiculous if he thinks I’m to blame.” 

“Zero? Really?” Simon’s tone was amused. 

“How was I to know he would completely blow it?” Simon had told her everything when he returned from brunch with her brothers, and her jaw had been on the floor for half of it.

“I don’t know, Daff, because you’ve known him for twenty-six years and this was entirely predictable? Tell me —” He started to laugh — “what made you think that, this time, he’d recognize his feelings and like, say them out loud to a woman ?”

“They spent their entire week either making out or one step away from it! It was annoying. And she’s perfect for him.” And she positively shuddered at the thought of having to make conversation with Eleanor Westchester for the next seventy years.

“Oh, great, now you got two emotionally repressed people to try and confront their feelings in the same room.” He chuckled, clearly amused at her. 

She felt herself get heated. “Wait, are you serious? This isn’t funny anymore.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think Ant’s angry. Like, some of it irrationally, because Ant. But he wouldn’t have chatted with her if you hadn’t said anything. And you think Kate is just … lazing about right now?” 

She crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you say anything? The night of the ball?” Was Kate mad at her? Perhaps Ant had mentioned her role during their fight or their romantic week in Paris. Daff hadn’t reached out since the breakup; she wondered if Kate thought her rude. 

He shrugged. “You were on a mission, I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

She cocked her head. “No, no. Now you don’t get off the hook. If I’m doing something that you think is a bad idea, I need you to say it.” 

“Seriously?”

“ Yes . Not only is it helpful to me, you also can’t just say, I told you so when I royally fuck up. It doesn’t work that way.” 

He lifted her hair behind her shoulder, and rubbed a thumb over her cheek in apology. “ Every bad idea, or just the ones involving your family?” 

“Well nothing involving fashion, honestly, and perhaps only one in three when my mother or El is involved.” She smiled. “But I mean it, you’re my person. If I do something stupid and I can’t trust you to tell me, who can I?” 

“Alright. Point taken. I’m sorry.” He kissed her forehead. “But this also means that you can’t tell me if I’m doing something wrong with fashion.” 

“Even when your shirt clashes with your blazer?”

“Oooh, especially then,” he said. 

She ran her hands down his chest. “Do you really think I screwed up with Ant?” 

“I think you had good intentions and a little too much belief in the power of true love, yes. I’ll forgive you; we had an engagement ball that evening and only ended up in the pool because we were trying to fuck.” 

“We got there eventually.” She smirked, remembering, then got ponderous. “Do you think there’s hope for them?”

“Daff …” 

“I’m serious! It sounds like the biggest and stupidest of misunderstandings.” 

“That only they can solve.” 

“Fine!” She pouted. “D’you think Kate will even come Thursday?”

“It’s a Royal Stand invitation from the Duchess of Clarence. It would be a massive snub.” 

“I don’t think Kate cares .” 

“I think she does,” Si replied. “She’s kind. She has good manners. She’s not going to burn a bridge.” 

“That’s true,” Daff admitted. “Do you honestly think she’s mad at me?”  

“I can’t imagine she’s chuffed,” Si replied. “But don’t go meddling , alright?” 

“Absolutely,” Daff promised.

She kept her promise for a full three hours.

In her defense, she had planned to discuss a topic unrelated to Ant with Kate — she had just assumed-slash-hoped it would be over a lovely, celebratory cocktail during which they both thanked her for her wisdom. However, in trying times, one must plow on, so when Simon left for a football match she called Kate. 

“Daphne?” Kate picked up on the third ring, but her voice was extremely cautious. 

“Hi,” she said, a little abashed. “I do want to be clear, I know what happened — or as much as Ant would tell Si, as he would not talk to me. And I am under strict no-meddling orders, which I intend to follow. This is entirely unrelated, but you are free to hang up on me, of course. I shan’t be offended.”

“No, it’s … it’s alright. I’m just still at work,” Kate said. Daff looked at the clock: Nearly half-past six. “How are you?”

Phew. “Oh, I’m good,” she replied. “I’m going to be launching my own eponymous lippie line in three weeks, which is quite exciting. How are you?” She winced. “Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Kate replied. “I’m well. Beyond … that.” 

“I know I said I wouldn’t meddle, and this doesn’t count, but I do know Ant and how difficult he is, and I want you to know I’m both very sorry it’s like this and the entire family is on your side.” 

Kate laughed a bit. “No really, it is. What’s uh, going on?” 

Daff smiled, a bit wanly. “So, you may know that I’m set to come into my inheritance upon my marriage, and Si also has a substantial family fortune as well as Clyvedon. I … while I enjoy charities and sponsoring dinners and causes, I’m interested in using my connections and resources a bit more specifically. Not that I’ll stop going to dinners and such, or co-hosting … I am just thinking about supporting one or two specific causes.” She took a sip of tea. “Substantial ones, I mean. I’ll always support the ballet, but I want to think a bit … bigger.” 

“Oh? And you’re … calling me.” 

“You seem the sort to know people who might help me figure this out,” she said, almost as a confession — she had no clue where to begin. “I thought about early reading — I do enjoy the little ones — but frankly I don’t want the Daily Mail speculating about the state of my uterus.” 

“Understandable.” 

“Exactly. But Si and I, we both lost parents young … I have been thinking, what if I’m able to do something, or bring attention to, children who are coping with, with loss or trauma or … things of that nature?” She flopped down on the couch, and exhaled. “Do you think that might be a good idea?” 

“I think that would be pretty wonderful,” Kate’s voice was measured, but impressed.

“Right, so do you … know anyone? Who might help me incorporate a charity, or even that I could learn from? I’m going to ask Lady Danbury, as well.” 

They chatted for twenty minutes, Kate overviewing what she knew of the legal processes as well suggesting some organizations for a ‘listening tour,’ which sounded intriguing. “I should let you go,” Daff said, genuinely grateful. “I”ll see you on Thursday, yes? Ladies Day?” 

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I told Bex I’d come. Is … is Ant coming?” 

“Yes, he is,” Daff replied. “It’s the Queen. One cannot —”

“Of course,” Kate said. “How … how is he?” Her voice was soft, and wistful.

She missed him. 

“He’s keeping himself busy,” Daff replied truthfully. “Working a lot. Stalking the family accounts and yelling at us for overspending.” That got a laugh out of Kate. “He ceded the Thames to you, in case you have been avoiding your row.” 

“I … yeah.” She clearly had been. 

“How are you?” She had not known Kate long, but the other woman was steady and honest, wry and confident, funny and fun. 

“A bit rough,” Kate said honestly. “It’s nice to have Edwina home, at least. Not as quiet in the house.” She and Ant had basically moved into her place, according to Col. There was a beat, and then she backtracked, “Sorry, that’s like, totally inappropriate. You’re his sister.” 

“And your friend,” Daff said, diplomatically but genuinely. “Please do let us know if you need anything, I mean it. You broke up with Anthony—” and hopefully, not for long — “not the Bridgertons.” 

“Thanks, Daff,” Kate said. “I’ll see you Thursday, yeah?” 

“Of course,” Daff said, and they disconnected.

Using the window of the towncar, Ant adjusted his tophat for the thirteenth time, and sighed. Still crooked. 

Next to him, his mother — resplendent in a Dior coatdress in her signature shade of blue — carefully eyed him. “Now Daff said that Miss Sharma —”

“— I know, Mother.” 

“And I just want to make sure that —”

“— You have no reason to worry,” he smiled at her, in a tone that brokered no disagreement. “Understood?”

“Good,” she said. She went back to fiddling with her phone, then started up again in a low voice. “I just would love to understand exactly what happened, as every one of my children assured me that no, this was a genuine friendship and not a serious —”

Across from them, Col, in his own tophat and a pale-blue vest, shifted. “Mum, I don’t think —”

“Even Hyacinth! Only to come and find out Miss Sharma was at the entire engagement party. And won Pall Mall! And then during the ball, you seemed quite taken with this lovely young woman —”

“— Enough.” Ant said. He could feel the headache forming and wished again that Ben’s trip to Art Basel hadn’t conflicted. “I assume you’ll be on your best behavior, hmm? No repeats of El and Fran’s party?” 

Chastened, Violet replied, “Ant, of course.” 

The car stuttered to a stop and Col practically bolted up. “Oh goodie. We’re here.” 

Even now, on his umpteenth trip, Ant had to admit Ascot was the perfect start to an English summer: A gleaming verdant oval nestled in the middle of the rich countryside. It was perfect, sunny weather, and the banners and general merriment upon arrival made it a postcard. The races were always exciting, the food perfect, the banners bright and sharp. 

The car had dropped them near the entrance to the Royal Enclosure, and Ant  affixed his pin to his lapel before offering his arm to his mother. The Royal Enclosure was the second-most prestigious invitation at the races, and held nearly twenty-five hundred  guests. As they walked through to the lift to the Royal Stand — the most exclusive invitation, where Ant had watched every year since he was ten — Mother took the opportunity to socialize extensively, as did Col. Eventually they found Daff and Si, who immediately said, “I’m beat. Shall we head up?” 

He was grateful for the support. Kate waited on the other side of the lift doors. 

She was there already; he could feel her as soon as they arrived. Within seconds he clocked her standing next to Bex, a few others, and — fucking Christ — Tom Dorset. Dorset was staring straight at her, googly-eyed, his fingers itching toward her elbow. Kate was confident, in the middle of all those new people, driving the conversation forward on her wit alone. 

She looked immaculately gorgeous in a watery grey dress in a shimmering crepe silk. It was slim-cut with an empire waist, sleeves that ended about two inches above her elbow, and two large pearl buttons on the neckline, giving it an almost midcentury vibe. He instantly recognized it as one of Genevieve’s. She had a coordinating coat — that same grey, swirled with a light berry pink — and, of course, a gray hat (base at least four inches, as dictated by the dress code) cocked jauntily to the side with a large pink flower under the brim, her hair tucked under.

He decided he should get it over with — rip the plaster off, so to speak — and started to walk toward them. Daff and Simon saw where he was heading, and he felt them scurry after him. As he got closer, he heard Kate ask Bex, “Who’s that with Freddie? He looks familiar.” 

“Oh, that’s Michael Sterling. The actor.” 

“He is the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen in the flesh,” she said, and Bex cackled. Fuck me , Ant thought grimly, and he must have made a noise because Bex saw him, and froze.

He smiled at the Duchess of Clarence — she’d sent him a long text yesterday, word-vomiting about how she didn’t know what happened but she had heard things , then pledging her allegiance to #TeamSwiss, and finally not-apologizing for inviting Kate. He’d left her on read. “Your Highness,” he said, with a nod. They only needed to bow to Prince Dick and the Queen today, but they were surrounded by people and it was best to acknowledge her. Also, he felt like being a bit of a dick, and she hated being nodded to. “Kate,” he nodded at her next, his tone much less sarcastic, and she looked discombobulated, biting her lip and looking down. “And Dorset.” Whatever. 

“Mate, good to see you,” Dorset smiled eagerly, then seemed to take in the awkwardness. “Oy. I’m going to go get some champagne. Kate, would you like something?” 

“Pimms, actually, would be wonderful,” she smiled, scratching under her ear the way she did when she got nervous. 

Bex looked between them. “Should I go get Pimms, or should I absolutely not go get Pimms?” she asked.

“I”ll go,” both Ant and Kate said at the same time, and then Kate smiled. “No, Anthony. You stay. I’ll just go help Tom. Bex, I’ll see you after your carriage ride.” She gave an abrupt nod to Ant, and excused herself. 

“Well that wasn’t too awkward,” Daff said from behind him. “Grading on a curve, of course.” 

“What was the curve from, and to?” Si asked sarcastically. 

Ant plowed forward, greeting the Lumleys and Fifes and Gorings. Bex, Nick, and Freddie left for the carriage ride, and the guests cheered them on from the blue-velvet-carpeted balcony, noshing on the seafood buffet and drinking champagne from the tap. They came back with Prince Dick, his sister Princess Agatha the Princess Royal, the Queen’s first cousins the Duke and Duchess of Hereford and, of course, Her Majesty herself. The entire room sang God Save the Queen ; he caught Kate stumbling into her curtsy, and he gave her a nod of encouragement. He understood it was hard to meet Queen Eleanor for the first time. 

While there were several private boxes for the 2,500 guests in the Royal Enclosure, the audience in the Royal Box was fairly tiny, only 108 guests, mostly Nick’s terrible relatives. He tried to circulate as much as possible and avoid Kate, but there simply wasn’t enough space. He heard her every word, the ring of her laugh. He tried, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

And neither, apparently, could Tom Dorset, who followed her around like an ignorant puppy. Ant tried to ignore them, but Daff or Nick coughed quietly every time his voice trailed off and he stared at them, and they were coughing often. Eventually, though, it became too much to ignore: As both Kate and Tom entered their bets at the computer terminal, he heard Dorset ask if she was available for a drink on Saturday. She replied warmly in the affirmative, and they set a time. 

Unacceptable. As soon as Dorset went to the seafood tower for more shrimp, Ant broke out of conversation with Marchioness Fairchild, Daniela’s mother, and headed toward her.   

“So you did like him all along.” He managed to keep his voice low, but the words burst out of him. 

She turned toward him, and stiffened as she drew up haughtily. She looked so stone-faced, and contained, though with a deer-in-the-headlights look. Her face was always so incredibly expressive — eyes flashing when she sized up a room; lips curling when someone said something ridiculous; brows up when she was enjoying something far too much — and right now, he barely recognized her. “He indicated interest using words and he’s made his intentions clear from the start.” She pursed her lips. “Sometimes straightforward is nice.” 

“I don’t know, sounds quite boring to me.” 

“I don’t know, sounds easy to me?”

“Ah, but since when have you ever liked easy, Kate?” He tried to stop the fondness from creeping into his voice, and took a breath in. “Or boring?” 

She looked irritated, more than anything. “He wants to date me, and he asked ,” she said pointedly. 

“Jolly good for him. Perhaps you ask him about genetic testing given his medical degree,” he hissed back, stepping closer. “Be straightforward about that information and all.” 

“You know I’m surprised you’re over here talking to me given that you still want to be married by Christmas and we have so many moderately eligible women here. Look, I see the Dowager Countess of Essex, she’s looking lively for eighty-three,” she said coolly, her face still stone but her eyes fiery. She took one step further in as well.

“ Children ,” Colin cut in quickly. “Outside. The races are starting.” He grabbed them both by an elbow. “You know, for two friends you’re acting awfully unfriendly.” Kate barked with laughter, and Col tightened his grip.

His brother didn’t let go of them until they were on the balcony, and they both finally un-tensed. He stepped back — but not away — as the first race started, and they began the polite Ascot form of cheering, a low, dignified hum at the outset.

Kate, though, was clearly agitating, tapping her fingers against her skirt as she watched the race, eyes wide and wild. “Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted under her breath — clearly aware that she, as a guest in their world,  couldn’t break through the polite applause.

Anthony, though, could. Someone always broke first every year, and this year it would be him. “Move!” He shouted. “Let’s bloody go!” 

As if on cue, the box crescendoed as everyone started cheering more vigorously. Next to him, Kate broke into a smile, put two fingers into her mouth, and whistled. He cheered louder too; looked over at her and smiled. She did too, before catching herself.  

The race ended, the crowd calmed down, and he took a deep breath. Finally, he angled toward her, and asked, formally, “Who did you bet on?” 

“In this race, Heart of Glass,” she said, and he laughed. Col poked him. “And I assume you went for Happy Feet?” She barely gritted out the words. 

“She’s the odds-on favorite and she won just last week at Doncaster.” 

“Where the course was dry, and the winds minimal. Today there is a slight breeze, and it rained yesterday. Heart of Glass did much better under similar conditions at Cheltenham. She’ll do well today.” She smirked, pleased as always to have taught him something, to have gotten one up on him. 

He snorted. “You think too much, you know.” The words got out before he realized that they applied to far more than her maniacal desire to win a bet at a horse race.

She got the meaning, though, and pursed her lips again, almost folding in on herself. “And you, too little.” 

He deserved that, he supposed.  

Kate’s horse won.

Soph took the glass of champagne with a smile, and turned back to the Central Hall of the National Gallery. The Alchemist’s Feast was the annual start-of-summer fundraiser for the museum, and it was absolutely one of her favorites of the season — they got a crowd that was smart and in-demand but not stuffy, or snoozy, know-it-all art snobs. The galleries were filled with plush furniture and food buffets; an American R&B singer crooned from a corner and they’d hired ‘living sculptures’ to serve as talking points. It was all so deeply charming. 

She’d just arrived back from Switzerland that afternoon, and this was truly a delightful come-down: Art Basel was all twenty-hour days of seeing exhibits and networking with buyers and representing their gallery’s artists and partying, and it was inspiring and overwhelming and mind-bending. A (sometimes quite literal) orgy of creativity, it was big, and anthemic, and revolutionary. But after five days of having her mind blown she needed a mental lie-in. It was genuinely nice to be surrounded by slightly silly, slightly pretentious fashion girls and their mothers — people  who just cared about the scene and being seen, without any vigorous, vociferous Art Opinions. 

Ben had been in Basel, obviously, showing the new series she’d posed for earlier that spring. It had turned out stark and simple but warm, a bit of a departure from his high-fashion, haughty style. He was similarly warm and affectionate with her — he’d had almost a pre-nostalgia for her departure since she told him she was leaving. In Switzerland they’d hit parties together and toured exhibitions, positively geeking out on some of the latest innovations, laughing at some of the more absurd ones. That was one of the best things about Ben as an artist — he was endlessly curious and on the edge of the cutting edge, but he wasn’t going to support fake or flashy innovation, or hide mediocre art behind zeitgeisty words. The high-art world could be as fake and full of itself as high society, and Ben saw the truth through both of them. He was brilliant and it was one of the things she loved the most about him. 

“Ugh, this party is so boring.” She turned toward the familiar voice: Rosamund and Posy, her stepsisters, with her father. Rosie was speaking. “And god, that singer has fat cankles. She’ll never get famous with those.” Sophie snorted, and they turned to her. 

Oh fudge, they saw her. “Hi, Sophie,” Posy, significantly nicer but lacking a backbone, greeted. 

“Hi girls, hi Dad.” She gave a tiny toast with her glass. “I see you’re enjoying yourselves.” 

Rosie raised an eyebrow. She really was terrifying in that way only a nineteen-year-old could be. “Valentino told me I had to come. Contracts, you know. So, I’m here.” Her face transformed into a sickly-sweet smile. “Though I bet this is super fun for you, right? Since you’re moving to Milan. So provincial! But cute.”

“You’re moving?” her father asked. 

“I’m considering,” she replied with a polite smile. “I have a job offer from a collector.” 

“It was the talk of Daphne Bridgerton’s engagement ball,” Posy said, a little in awe, it seemed, that Sophie rated such interest. Posy was not as terrifying as Rosamund, but she was always a bit aspirational, in an unattractive way. She wanted things too transparently, had a habit of making others uncomfortable. Including Sophie, who cringed at the simpering tone. 

“Oh, how interesting. You’ll have to come round for dinner before you go,” her father said, distantly. Whether Sophie was in Milan or London didn’t matter to him — heck, he was probably wondering what to do with the Shoreditch flat, in his name. He was a careless, selfish person; this simply wouldn’t register. She did not need that energy. 

“Naturally,” she replied. “Anyways, I must mingle. Toodaloo.” She finger-waved goodbye. 

She wandered a bit more, chatted with Lady DeWitt and the Duchess of Hereford, with one of the artists from Chiaroscuro and a collector from Edinburgh. Mentioned the new role to many, flirted with a few men. She realized that, while she’d gone to this party at least three times, this was the first year she was attending with some professional gravitas, not just a hanger-on of Ben’s or one of the most beautiful girls in the London art scene. She smiled; that was incredibly cool. 

She started hunting for a designer that she liked and was interested in getting some of her clients’ art in her show when  — “Don’t you look ravishing,” Ben said. He looked especially tall in his suit, a contemptuous and commanding look on his face. He held a vape pen in his mouth; selected, she was sure, so that it would not damage the art. 

She gave him a closemouthed smile, wiggling her shoulders a bit to show off her Nensai Dojoka two-piece dress: gold chain metal on top and a hot-pink skirt. “Hey stranger,” she flirted. “Want to dance?” 

“With you? Always.”

The fat-cankled singer segued into a slowed-down version of Blurred Lines , and Sophie had to suppress a smirk as he led her to the dance floor. She slid next to him, let his hands drift over her hips. 

“Making all the right connections for the new gig?” he asked. “Saw you over there with Wilhelmina Finch.”

She smirked. “I’m hardly packing my bags yet. Connections are connections for any job. And I’m very good at my job.” 

His smile was a bit dimmer. “Oh, I’ve always known you’re extraordinary.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “No. You haven’t.” 

“Have too. May have been shit at expressing it, but Soph … you’ve kept me intrigued for a decade.” 

She tilted her head. “Don’t go maudlin on me, now.” And it was a romanticization, she thought — if anything, she was simply his muse. 

He laughed, a little sardonically. “You know, Milan is a two-hour flight and we could see each other as often as we want. I don’t think that’s what you want, though.” The last part he whispered directly in her ear. 

She shook her head, with a small hum, her chin brushing under his jaw. “My family is my family, they’ll always be the same. My job’s been the same for six years. You’re always banging on about reinvention and embracing change. I’m finally doing that.” 

“I know,” he said softly. “I do.” 

“So?” 

“Pick any object in the universe and stare at it long enough, and you’ll find it’s hitched to every other part,” he inhaled, deeply, and she suddenly considered that perhaps he did have a higher opinion of her than she gave him credit for. “Every part of me is connected to every part of you. That connection will change, it will shift — I expect you want it to — but that will endure. You can move to Italy and have thirty children with a Vespa-riding model, and that will still be the case.” 

She blinked, her eyelashes ghosting over his check. Her eyes felt wet, but just a little. “The only way for love to prevail over loss is to live in one tense. Now.” Arendt was one of his favorite philosophers. 

“And you’re going to build your own now.”

“Yes. You always have. And I’ve just … fitted into everyone else’s now.” It was not wrong or bad, to seek constancy from outside things. Very few people had Ben’s singularity of self. Very few people had had to have Ben’s singularity of self, had had to define themselves so explicitly from such a young age. Very few people got to have Ben’s singularity of self. “I haven’t said yes yet. I won’t leave until the end of summer.”

“But you will,” he said gently. 

She realized how deeply she still wanted him to beg, to chase after her plane like the heroine of an American romcom. To declare himself hers, to follow him to every salon, every photo session. To commit to hoping for a lifetime of being each other’s wedding dates and sharing in-jokes at Art Basel and ordering takeaway for each other. It would be so much easier, to continue to fold herself into Ben’s life, to define herself by and through him, to wish upon a star for things to change. It would also be wrong, and perhaps he had known it, she realized, far longer than she had.

If you love something set it free . 

She had thought, for months and months, that the thing to set free was Ben. It turned out it was her. 

She had to break her own heart to rebuild it, to make it truly her own. 

“I will,” she affirmed.

“Promise me one thing.”

“What?” 

“You’ll never be boring.” 

She laughed. “I would never.”

They danced on. 

“This is all very exciting!” Nick yelled, voice carrying above the fold. “I haven’t been to a club since before Georgina was born!” 

Next to him Simon snorted. “That was less than a year ago. They haven’t changed much.” 

Anthony would agree. Even in his twenties, he’d tolerated them only as a means to an end — entertaining a date, hanging out with his friends, getting trashed. But it was the first night of Will’s newest pop-up, Isn’t it Nice, a South-of-France themed “beach extravaganza,” luxury overlaid with a heavy dose of Euro club culture. They were there because Ben and Si decreed that both he and Nick needed to get out. He’d initially tried to duck out and claim work, but then pictured Kate on her date with her legs around Dorset on their date, and had changed his mind in an instant.

Will had built quite the empire with his nightclubs and private entertainment venues; Ant had made a small investment when they’d met him a decade ago and it had more than paid off. He honestly kept forgetting to talk to Mondrich about taking Col under his wing; it felt like it could be a good place for Col to park and he clearly needed some structure. 

Club Scene was his original location, in the heart of Soho; he kept a theme for about six weeks before going dark for four days and completely transforming the venue. Isn’t it Nice had large-screen TVs playing French New Wave cinema on mute, set against pulsing house music; right now, Umbrellas of Cherbourg ran as a remix of “Sexy Bitch” pulsed over the loudspeakers. Will had trekked in white sand — Ant suspected it was actually imported from France — and dressed all of the waitresses in blue-and-white striped bikinis. Similarly all of the drinks were themed; someone had handed Ant a bright-blue Kir Royale called the You Cannes Drink This . They occupied a private, elevated space above the dance floor decked out as a cabana; scantily clad women contorted above them in trapeze hoops. Half of the dance floor was covered in a two-foot deep wave pool, and the crowd was happily splashing about in it, many of them simply in swimsuits. It was wild, loud, drunken, distracting, necessary. 

“Were clubs always this … loud?” Nick shouted. Behind him, his security shifted from foot to foot, clearly pissed at Ben.

“Yeah, mate,” Ben yelled back, grabbing shots off of a tray and passing them around. 

“What are we toasting?” 

“Old roommates and new beginnings,” Ant volunteered with a wan smile. Nick had somehow completely aged himself out of the club scene in a matter of months, and even wore a button-down under a Fair Isle sweater. Ben had dressed Ant in a pink blazer and loafers, but honestly Ant didn’t feel too far behind him. 

They took one shot, then another, dancing in their booth, which at least offered room to maneuver. Simon had cued his football team in and other friends began to show; a few of Ben’s more rave-happy art connections slipped in. It started to feel less like a dad-lad’s night out and more like an actual, fun party. 

“Oy,” Ben called, nudging his elbow. “Isn’t that Siena over there?” 

He looked down, inhaling sharply. Ben was right; in a cabana right across the way, Siena was dancing with friends, her curtain of dark hair flashing in front of her face. She wore a crop top fashioned like a bandana, tight white pants, neon heels. 

She, unlike him, looked like she was having a grand old time. 

“Oh my god that’s Siena,” Nick said. “What are you going to do ?” His tone was as gossipy as Portia Featherington’s. 

“Have you lost … whatever moves you had? Since the whole marriage, baby, thing?” Ben asked, not impressed.

“He never had it. He just had an HRH,” Simon confirmed. 

“I shall do nothing,” Anthony declared.

“Is she still with that drummer?” Nick asked.

“I have no idea,” he replied, voice cool. 

But he felt a funny, fish-hook’s tug of guilt, watching her shimmy her shoulders and swirl her hips and laugh. Whatever wrongs he’d committed against Kate, he’d committed them first and more clumsily against Siena. He had proposed to Siena; he had merely propositioned Kate. The patterns that Ben had pushed on, she had been a part of; the criticisms Kate had slung at him, Siena had flung at him too. 

He hadn’t noticed, because he hadn’t cared enough to notice; now, with Kate in the rearview mirror and all their mutually-assured destruction, he realized that his callousness had probably hurt Sienna quite deeply. 

“I should send her a bottle of champagne,” he declared, flagging down a waitress and ordering the second-most expensive bottle on the menu. “Write I think I’m paying for all the hurt that I’ve done ,” he instructed. It was a lyric from “Love Me Wild,” the song that had rocketed her to fame. 

Fred and Col, accompanied by El and Pen, showed up soon after, and the night got blurry the way that nights out with those two lads often did. There were shots, and edibles, and more drinks, and dancing. Some of the club’s dancers made their way into the cabana; he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves as the temperatures heated up. It was mindless, delirious, sweaty. Given Nick’s presence their cabana was well locked down — there would be no pictures in the Daily Mail — and it felt like they were ten years younger.

Eventually he needed to take a piss; nobody else seemed particularly available, so he wandered out by himself. The dance floor carried him away and suddenly —

He was face to face with Siena.

She looked the same as always, knowing and doe-eyed and so, so breakable. She always conveyed contradictions: mouthy and moody, tough and tender, innocent and in the know. She had been a hurricane of emotions; a torrent of words and feelings. Clearly not much had changed.

But him. He’d changed. And he was drunk and emotional now, too.

“Hey,” he said, the dance floor going silent behind him, winnowing to the pinprick of him and her. “You look well.” His voice was rough. It was a bit of a mindfuck, to see her again. He thought she was out of his life, gone for good, a ghost of Christmas past. 

“Anthony,” she said, in a measured tone. “Long time no see.” 

“Yeah, well, you threw a shoe at me and said you never wanted to see me again.” His tone warmed into something cocky and sure. 

“I did and I do.” She smiled back, crackling with confidence. “But thanks for the champagne.” She moved in to kiss him on the cheek, then stepped back, ready to go.

“I did — I did mean it,” he said. “The apology.” 

“Ant, the words ‘I’m sorry’ are a very necessary component there.”

And then … something broke inside of him, a dam bursting and regret and vulnerability snaking out of every available crevice, like water running downstream or air seeking sky. Pouring out unstoppably. He was so tired of not being able to let people in, of being dumped just when he was about to do so. Of not mattering, of being nobody’s priority, of doing everything wrong when he was only focused on doing everything right. Of being sad, responsible, safe, scared, angry.

He was so tired of being lonely. He was so tired of being alone. 

“But I am sorry,” he insisted, his words slippery and drunk. “I didn’t — I didn’t get it. That I was being selfish, and rude, and presumptuous, and a git.” Words burbled from him. “I was just … I was just thinking of myself. Not just during the fight, the whole time we were together. I didn’t think about you, I didn’t think about why I wanted what I wanted.” He swallowed, and the two brunettes blurred together. He was no longer sure who he was talking to, but the words, the feelings , kept coming. He ached in every part of his body. “And I’m sorry , you know? I’m sorry I got you caught up in that. You deserved so much better. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it. I’m sorry that I just … couldn’t be what you needed.” His voice cracked with longing, with need, before trailing off with a wimper. Kate flashed before him— Kate considering something he was saying, Kate laughing with him, but also Kate out with Dorset. Kate far away, with Edwina and her parents and people she truly loved. He blinked, Siena was back. 

She bit her lip, considering his words, his disheveled appearance.

And then she leaned forward, and kissed him. 

She’d always been a good kisser, there had been no complaints. He may have stood there, kissing her back, for thirty seconds or for three minutes. Finally, desperately, he pulled back. He wanted, he needed: to forget, to matter to someone, to move on, to not be sad, to remember. 

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked. It was impulsive but not; he wasn’t sure if, once he had spotted her, there was any other way for this evening to end. 

She looked at him warily, but then — “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

Chapter Text

“I wish I knew how to quit you.” — Brokeback Mountain

“And then, you know, we went back to his place, fooled around a bit.” Kate finished her story with a shug of her shoulder, and took a substantial bite of vegan sausage and masala beans as she waited for her audience’s reactions. Dishoom’s Bombay-inspired vegan English breakfast was delicious, and she adored the leafy, industrial,  sun-dappled indoor courtyard. She’d never been before, and while the foods were very different, it reminded her of her grandfather’s little restaurant in Chennai. 

But, crickets. She cleared her throat. “And it was, you know. Fine. Fun! It was fun.” It had been a perfectly lovely evening. Tom was smart and straightforward, conscientious and experienced, self-deprecatingly funny and a perfectly good kisser. It was exactly what one expected out of a date with a tall doctor. “He invited me to the Featherington wedding next week, I haven’t decided.” 

She twisted the napkin in her lap between her thumb and her forefinger, willing someone to talk. Edwina, who had been listlessly following and eating parsi omelette, finally opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “I know that I haven’t dated a ton, but can we back up to why you went on a date with Tom?” 

“Honestly I’m still in Paris,” Sophie piped in, pulling a bun apart and chewing on a piece slowly. “Eddie, I know you’ve been caught up, but —” 

“Oh, actually, I have no idea, I didn’t even know they were serious until Anthony called for tickets.” Edwina’s interruption was apologetic, her hands up as if to disassociate herself from Kate’s poor decisions. “And she’s said nothing the past week and a half.” 

Eddie wasn’t lying. Kate had never been a wallower, and she just spent a full week fucking wallowing , moping and crying and ignoring texts and avoiding the Thames and wearing yoga pants and watching old Bollywood movies in her room. Drinking too much and working too much. It sucked, but it was hers to manage — Sophie was moving, Edwina had Wimbledon — and so she’d accepted Tom Dorset’s invitation, and gone on the date, and arranged brunch, finally putting on a favourite yellow maxi dress from Brigitte to really underscore the message that Everything Was Under Control, Really, Now. ”They were so cute courtside, and he bought me like, a thousand pounds of books and clothes to impress her. Oh, and Mum and Appa loved him.” 

Kate rolled her eyes, and stabbed at a banger. “I told you, bon, we got into a stupid fight.” She chewed the not-meat. “We … we both said things, and that was that.”  

“OK, no,” Edwina rebutted. “That’s … I don’t believe that’s it.” 

“I mean, I knew you would have a flame-out fight,” Sophie admitted. “But like … you were so happy at Aubrey Hall. And then suddenly … you’re arguing at Ascot, and nobody knows what happened.” 

“Because you won’t tell us.” Edwina sing-songed the full thought. 

Stabbing another sausage, she sighed.“OK, Eddie, you remember the presser questions?” 

“About losing and what I’m reading, and …” She gasped, absolutely scandalized. “Did Appa’s PD come up?” 

Kate scratched under her ear. “A bit, yeah.” 

“Wait, what?” Sophie asked. 

“I was asked about Appa’s Parkinson’s, and I mentioned that I’m negative for the genetic …” Edwina’s voice trailed off and then she shrieked, a little, and covered her mouth. “Didi! Was this because all because you won’t get the stupid test?”

“What?” Sophie asked.

“It’s —”

“Wait. Wait! You didn’t know?” Edwina looked thrilled to be sharing information. “Appa’s Parkinson’s is hereditary. I’m negative, I got tested years ago. Kate won’t get the test.” 

“What … what the fuck , Katie?” 

“It’s … I refuse to let the results of a genetic test dictate my life.” It was too simple an explanation, less than Sophie deserved, but the test wasn’t germane to this conversation.

“Well, if it’s negative, it won’t dictate your life, and if it caused you and Ant to break up, it sounds like it is controlling your life,” Sophie pointed out, choking down some chai. “My gosh.”

“She’s bonkers, right?” Edwina replied. Kate rolled her eyes; her sister was enjoying being at the adult’s table too much. 

Sophie stayed focused, though. “So he finds out that you are ignoring your risk for a neurological disease — which we will go back to — and then he —”

“—He suggested we … amend our agreement,” she offered. “He said I should move in.” Her lip quirked up involuntarily, a tug of wonder or hope.

She still couldn’t quite believe it. Even though it had been out of mere obligation. 

“How romantic !” Edwina practically squealed as she clapped. This was all out of a book for her. 

Kate tried not to glare. The entire purpose of brunch was to communicate she was fine, and that message was spiraling away. “It was not . We were not in a relationship, which I pointed out, then we began arguing.” 

“What did you say , specifically, to him?” Sophie asked, measuredly. “Come on. I get Bridgerton boys.” 

Kate put her face in her hands. “A lot of things,” she admitted with a groan. She had just panicked . “He’s been clear, from the start, that he wants some separate-beds arrangement with  some society wife. ... And that’s not me.” There was no room in his vision of his future for business trips to the Hague and pretrial weeks where she was catatonic from billing sixty hours. “That’s just … not me.” She sighed, trying not to feel as if not meeting his terrible vision was a personal failure.

“OK, what did he say?” Edwina encouraged.

“Um … We just got back, had some Scotch. He said we weren’t abiding by our ground rules,” she repeated. “ Ipso facto , we should date.” Honestly, her head still hurt thinking about it. “And — all along, he has been clear , we were … friends.” 

Even though sometimes, the way he looked at her took her breath away. Even though he had gripped her waist so tightly she still felt like his fingerprints were tattooed on her hip bones. Even though he begged her to stay at Aubrey Hall.

“But suddenly, he wanted to completely change the rules.” 

“That was really unfair timing,” Sophie empathized. 

“ Yes. ” She nodded. “And I think he just … he doesn’t know what he wants. I mean, maybe that is what he wants, but he hasn’t thought through why .” And even though it wasn’t her place — it made her sad, for him, that he assumed he was not worthy of a loving relationship. That he set out to find something so narrow, so mean. 

If he wanted to be married, he deserved an amazing wife and life. 

Edwina wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean, more commitments? You have your job and that’s it.” 

“Of course that’s not it, bon. I’m there for you, traveling wherever you’re playing to support you. And then Appa and Mum need help, the finances, care appointments …” Her voice trailed off. 

“Just skip a match if it’s such a commitment .” Edwina shrugged.  

“Bon, it’s not a burden.” She didn’t have time for childishness today. Edwina pulled away with an eyeroll. “All along, it was easy to just … go along. But I’d been —” she looked down at her lap, ashamed — “I’d been fooling myself, and I’d known it for weeks. So we … we fought.”

“You literally do it for a living. So what?” 

“I … He called me controlling, and was mad about the test. So mad. And I just … he’s so fussy and rigid and pompous and he just … creates these cages and rules for himself, with his money, with his whole aristocratic world and just … doesn’t realize it, he doesn’t realize that he chooses to be miserable, chooses to be bound by duty, and then he just assumes that he can use those to bend the rest of the world to fit his worldview and his goals.” She thought back to the problems he minimized, the conversations they avoided, the duty he hid behind reflexively. 

The fact that he had never ridden the fucking Tube . 

The way she’d let herself drift along into his world, let herself reconsider things that had been settled long ago, let herself get distracted from her goals and her commitments. All driven by nothing more than desire for him. 

No. Love. 

It was time to get this conversation, and her life, back on track. 

She rubbed a thumb against her temple. Both of them stared at her, Edwina chewing contemplatively. Then: “I think that’s all an excuse, didi. I think you were waiting for a shoe to drop and he dropped a shoe and then you … threw the shoe back.” 

“What?” she asked, aghast and confused. 

“It means she thinks that you got scared and were looking for an excuse, and him being dumb about agreements was the thing,” Sophie translated. “For the record, I agree. Good one, Little Sharma.”

“Thank you.” Edwina preened.   

“I — that is not what happened.” 

“How long had you two been in a relationship, by this point?” Sophie prodded. 

“We — we weren’t . We were … barely functionally dating.” She, unlike Ant, was at least aware that they had been dating. “We were just running on sex and laughter and good vibes.” And her quest to introduce him to all the truly great street foods of the world. And his laugh whenever she had cracked some weird, tightly-wound posh part of him free by making him dance to Beyonce in the kitchen. And the way he could always find the tennis channel for Edwina’s matches.  

She blinked, and looked down, willing the tears to stay at bay. 

“What do you think a relationship is ?” Sophie asked, exasperated. “You laugh with someone, you like hanging out with them, and you have great sex with them. Boom.”

“He obviously cared. Why else would he be mad about the test?” Eddie added.  

“A relationship requires goals. Direction.” She dragged a tofu rasher through the sauces on her plate. “I was going to break it off when we were back in London,” she admitted. 

“Ah ha! Control-loving shoe-thrower.” Edwina rested her case with a little dance, waving her fork around. “Just waiting for something to go wrong.” 

Something did go wrong. Something had been out of her control. 

She’d fallen in love with him.

“How else would you see this ending?” she asked, pushing them. “Honestly.” 

They were both quiet. 

“There was always going to be a blowup,” Sophie allowed.

“What? Why?” Edwina protested. “You didn’t see them in Paris. There was love there.” 

“Edwina —”

“No, didi! Just because I’m twenty-one, doesn’t mean I don’t know love when I see it.” She jutted her chin out. “So what if he handled the conversation poorly? He was upset by the test! He wanted to make it permanent. Was that such an unthinkable fate?” 

She twisted her napkin in his lap. “If that’s not what he wants, yes.” Her voice was a near whisper. If she was going to be in love with him, and him merely indifferent — yes. If he was only interested in her as a compromise between his duty and her availability — yes.  She wouldn’t have him resenting her in six months, a year, five years, when she wasn’t that compliant, distant vision, when she didn’t fall neatly behind his company and his siblings, when she and her burdens couldn’t be neatly boxed away while he traveled. 

She cleared her throat. “And besides. I don’t want marriage.” She used her court voice: steady, authoritative, assured.

“What do you want? To be alone forever?” Edwina scoffed.

“Eddie — bon, you are a bit luckier than me, being the younger daughter. You may consider innocence a hindrance, but it is a gift, to be shielded from some of the responsibilities of our family.” 

Edwina’s brow furrowed sharply. In addition to birth order, Mum was not Indian, and with Appa away so often working, Eddie had had a much more English upbringing, bore fewer first-generation expectations: Kate was the one who went to India in the summer, to a public school during the week, to Hindi school on Saturday. By the time Edwina was old enough to board, Appa’s illness meant that their funds were limited and Kate had to choose: Tennis, or an elite school. 

Kate sighed. “I take care of people, I manage things. I’m happy to! I would go barking letting someone else do it, I know that. But I don’t want to add to that with a husband, kids. Not to mention all the society things he would just … expect from a wife. I truly would like a … self-determined life.” She loved her family unconditionally, but she was incredibly unsure how she could add any more obligations without cracking. “I think ideally …” She popped a piece of samosa in her mouth. “Perhaps a travel companion. But simple . Streamlined . Unburdened.” The word evoked a surprising surge of emotion, and she shook her head to clear it. “You know, bon ,” she teased, trying to lighten her mood. “I used to be fun. I haven’t been fun in London.” 

“You’ve been so fun!” Edwina exclaimed. “You hung out in the country at a fucking manor with the future King and your extremely attractive boyfriend!” She took a sip of chai. “You’ve been more fun since you got back than I’ve seen you in years.” 

“Katie, sure, there’s still nobody I’d rather dance on a bar with at 2 AM or take a Ryanair to Lisbon with. But you’re still totally free-spirited, freethinking. Borderline contrary, honestly. Even if you’re like a big-girl barrister with loads of responsibilities.”

“If you self-determine that you would like a relationship, isn’t that still self-determination?” Edwina reasoned.

Ugh. “I am self-determining that I don’t want a commitment.” She grabbed another samosa. “Well. I’ve been thinking I’ll get a dog.”  

“And do you see that with Tom?” Sophie — very pointedly — ignored the dog comment.  

“For the time being, perhaps.” He was enjoyable, perfectly  satisfying, and — most importantly — comforting and familiar. She knew how to date Tom Dorset. At no point in the evening did an emotion or conversation or look surprise her or send her into some sort of introspective spiral of complicated self-doubt. Which was perhaps the best part. “I’ll date him and find out how long I want to date him.” 

“I think she’s pining,” Edwina told Sophie.

“Oh definitely,” Sophie agreed. “Katie, I think if you talk to Ant … It doesn’t seem … un-solvable.” 

“Maybe if you like, ask him out to the river to row, and you could apologize over chai, ” Edwina suggested. 

“Or invite him over for Indian takeaway and Edwina’s matches,” Sophie added. 

“ That was their idea of a date?” 

“It was very domestic.” Soph pulled a syrupy face, then snapped her gaze back to Kate. “Yes, do this, just say it was because you hate losing control. Wear one of those strappy tops he loves on you, and don’t be snarky. It’ll totally work.” 

“Totally!” 

“Cher. Dionne,” she interrupted them. “That’s not going to happen.” She dragged a last bit of naan through her plate. “It’s just too late.” 

Edwina sighed dramatically, and pulled out her phone, clearly bored of her sister’s mulishness. Then she gasped. “It’s nothing,” she said, immediately, dropping her phone. 

“What, bon?” she asked. 

Edwina looked guilty. “It’s Whistledown. I’m sorry.” 

She quickly grabbed her phone, spun through Stories until she found it: Ant, leaving a club, a little too drunk, arms around a woman. Her face tucked into that stupid space between his chin and his ear that was perfectly sized for nuzzling and the swirl of dark hair completely obscured her face. He was laughing, his eyes wild. 

Well then. “As I said. Too late.” She swiped into her text messages and started typing furiously. 

“What are you doing, didi?” 

“Accepting Tom’s invitation to the Featherington wedding.” She gave them a grim, triumphant smile. 

“Oh Christ,” Sophie muttered. “Here we go.” 

“— And so, we can sell Clyvedon to a trust. It’ll have a small school with all sorts of specialists, for kids recovering from trauma, and then day programs. My inheritance and the property transfer taxes can start an endowment and then I can throw a gala every year and probably cover half the operating revenue.” Daff leaned across the table at Everbean and raised an eyebrow. “Goodness knows I’ve collected enough favors over the last decade.” 

“That’s a great idea, Daff,” Col said, genuinely impressed. 

She took a sip of her turmeric latte. “Thank you, I know.” She smiled. “Alright, your turn. What have you been cooking up with Penelope Featherington?” 

He took a bite of the cardamom bun. “OK. Well, you know how all twentysomethings love to travel, have authentic experiences, and build a community of friends? But it’s beyond the reach of a lot of people. So I’m gonna pitch a hostel attached to a crowd-sourced travel network and social-content channel.” 

“Oh?” 

He sipped his ruby latte, clearing his throat. “Picture this: A network of hostels in major cities. You pay a membership and you get to travel to any of them, plus you get advice and then discounts at the coolest bars, restaurants, stuff like that. There are city guides by local ambassadors, and they’re your local networks. Then, when they travel, you host them. You get cheap stays and great local deals, and then you get a community as well as a platform for your own social content.” 

“So like, if I go to Dublin, I stay at a hostel, and there’s a built-in network of friends, and they take me around and we go to bars and clubs and we get discounts and then when I’m in Paris, I already have a social network.” 

“Exactly. Guaranteed community, anywhere in the world.” That was Pen’s pitch-line.

“Huh,” she said. “You know that’s really not bad.” 

He grinned. “And they say we’re just the family’s pretty faces.” 

“Maybe not just pretty faces, but definitely the prettiest ones.” She nodded, impressed. “I think this is good. And I think this is good for you.” 

“Thanks.” He grinned. “Now, though … you think Ant will go for it?” 

“Oh sure,” she said airily. “Now, speaking of Ant …” 

“Oh no.” Col sat back. “You didn’t ask me out for coffee to chat! You asked me because I’m the weak link!” 

Daff pouted. “I saw the photos on Whistledown’s Stories yesterday. Simon won’t say anything because I promised last week I wouldn’t meddle.” 

“Why did you make a promise you can’t keep?” 

“Because he’s my fiance and I love him and love makes you try to be better.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyways. Si wouldn’t tell, Ben wouldn’t tell.” She stared at him. “I know you met up with them. Tell me what happened or I’ll tell Mama what actually happened to Great-Granny’s vase back in 2004.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” 

He cracked. “OK, well, fine,” he confessed. “Honestly, he went off for a piss and just … never came back.” 

“So it’s some random woman?” 

“No, it’s …” He lowered his voice, “ Siena. He bumped into her. Sent her some Apology Champagne and then suddenly, he’s making out with her.” 

“This is just classic Anthony.” She began to shred her muffin. “You know I really thought he was getting somewhere with Kate. And taking a relationship seriously even if he was allergic to the term.” 

“Eh, I know you don’t like her much —”

“I had no opinion on her!” Colin snorted. “Goodness knows Ant never brought her round, I never could have an opinion on her. I just think she’s … indiscreet. She has a PR person.” 

“You have a PR person.” 

“Part time, and mine doesn’t call paparazzi when I go out to dinner.” It felt a little six-of-one to Colin — Daff didn’t call them because Daff didn’t need to call them. “Remember when she spent like, a month retweeting lewd Internet comments and calling out ‘Ron, 44, from Portsmouth,’ for being a sexist arse?” 

“She was taking a stand against misogyny and cyberbullying.” Col defended her. “She’s a little bit of an activist, she has opinions on things.” 

Daff just humphed. “It just feels like backsliding.” 

“Listen, is he … going to invite her to Aubrey Hall tomorrow? No. But he cared about her. There was …” His voice trailed off, “chemistry.” 

“Volatile chemistry,” Daff snarked. “Well. I hope he’s happy.” 

“I think so,” Col replied, “because he’s inviting her to Pippa’s wedding.” 

“No.” 

“Well he’s clearly not going with Kate. And …” He shrugged. “I think Ant may be … lonely? He’s been in a terrible mood lately.” 

Daff scoffed. “That’s because he didn’t get his way with Kate.” 

“I honestly think he wants to get wifed up.” Colin shrugged again, then stood. “Alright, I have to be going, I told Penelope I’d meet her.” 

“Tell her mama hello,” Daff said, in a tone that indicated she wished no such thing. 

Ten minutes later, he knocked and squared his shoulders, bracing himself for Lady Portia, Pippa, and Pru Featherington, always a storm of barking-mad, emotionally draining behavior. 

Their longtime housekeeper, Mrs. Fillmore, opened the door — with a completely new face. Apparently Slightly Shady Sasha’s financial generosity extended to the staff. “Master Colin,” she said, her voice jolly but her cheeks unmovable. “Please, come in.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Fillmore.” He nodded as he stepped in. “Are the girls all here?” 

“Yes, everyone is right back in the living room. Genevieve Delecroix is here, she’s designing the dresses, you know.” 

“I have heard, yes. Are you excited for the wedding?” The entire foyer had been redone: Gold-leaf wallpaper, brand-new marble flooring, and a massive Lucite entry table with an enormous orange Jeffrey Koons puppy vase stuffed with flowers. On the far right wall, he noticed more new art: Square paintings of Lady Portia and the girls, done in the style of Andy Warhol.  

“Oh, of course.” Her lips moved, briefly. “Who doesn’t love a wedding?” 

The Featheringtons had always occupied a tenous place in Society: The family name went back at least four hundred years, with plenty of stories (gamblers, pirates, even a murder in the 1750s) tied to the ancestors. But they peaked in the early 1900s, when the King, who had made Pen’s great-great-grandmother his mistress, died on top of her while having sex in a bathtub. Lady Portia had been a stewardess when she met Lord Featherington on a flight to Monaco; she’d gotten pregnant and locked down a wedding before she realized how close to broke the family was. Her husband gambled the remaining funds away. Growing up, the girls were alternatively ostracized or given posh-kid charity: Pen, for instance, was the only friend invited on every Bridgerton family holiday, and Mum would often slip her a set of uniforms when Portia just squeezed her into Pru’s hand-me-downs. A few years after Edmund died, Lord Featherington had a heart attack on top of a prostitute, an ironic and tawdry inverse of his great-grandmother’s fate. 

Nobody worked harder than Portia, though, and she’d hung on by marrying and then divorcing two men in quick succession (including her husband’s cousin), then being widowed by a third, all before Pen was twenty (the third marriage was highly contentious and chattered about still — he’d been sick when they wed and his children contested the will). She’d then gotten Pru on Kensington Bred , and introduced Pippa to Slightly Shady Sasha, and their fortunes were considerably more set. 

Tall and skinny and silent, with pale skin and thin whiteblond hair and nearly colorless blue eyes, Slightly Shady Sasha crept along the outside of parties and society, practically a ghost behind the silly but vivacious Pippa. The couple made out at every party in London — it was honestly gross — but the relationship was also deeply transactional: The Featheringtons got access to a no-questions-no-strings fortune, and Slightly Shady Sasha’s father — whom El had nicknamed Bad Dude Boris — received a connection to legitimate British society, and English citizenship for his grandchildren. 

Pen had always been a little more independent, and certainly more intelligent than Pippa and Portia rubbed together. Her relationship with her mum confounded Col — Portia was alternately terrible or effusive, or (most regularly) simply ignored Pen. None of this had really clocked on Col’s radar growing up, or when he’d briefly dated Marina three years ago, but now that he was back it was clear how strange and sad the situation was. He didn’t like sad things, so he tried not to dwell. 

“Colin,” Pen exclaimed as he rounded into the living room. It had been updated to a deep, absinthe green with berry-pink Queen Anne’s furniture. “So good of you to drop by!” 

He had to blink … several times, as he took in Pen’s dress. Bright yellow and appliqued in flowers and butterflies and crystals in both orange and green, the gown could probably power a light bulb for a year. 

“Truly.” Lady Portia, wearing orange-and-pink, smiled ferally. Pru was itching in a lime number, staring irritatedly at Pippa. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Master Colin?” He noticed that Lady Portia’s face and body looked extra-svelte, and Pru’s lips looked new. He was glad that Pen and his sisters didn’t mess with this nonsense. 

“How, uh, is the wedding planning going?” he asked.

“It’s a bit tense this morning actually,” Pen said brightly. Her hair looked shorter — bobbed and pretty cute.

“Oh?” he asked, regretting it immediately. 

“Mama said that three dresses would be plenty, but last week at Sasha’s cousin Natasha’s wedding, she had five dresses,” Pippa sniped. 

“ And she promised coverage on Kensington into the contracts for the cake and the flowers — completely forgetting that I am in the middle of a very tense plot line regarding whether I am in love with my boss!” Pru shrieked. 

“You, uh, have a job?” he asked, mildly. He thought the show was her job. 

She glared. “If you watched you would know.” 

“Plus the Duke, Duchess, and Freddie officially declined.” Pippa sighed. “I suppose it’s because Freddie can’t bear to witness me being tied forever to another man.” 

“Oh. Um. That’s right,” Colin replied. It definitely had more to do with the fact that Bad Dude Boris was buying his way into society and the Palace deemed it too political, all A Bad Look.

“Regardless! We will be the royalty on Saturday,” Lady Portia decladed. 

“Right then,” Pen said, stepping gracefully away from the seamstress. “Col came over because we needed a chat. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” 

“Penelope, you’re not done with your fitting,” Portia said. 

“Oh Mama, another twenty hours in this dress couldn’t make it any better,” she said serenely. She made her escape and Col waved before quickly following her. 

“Give me five to change. What did you want to talk about?” she asked briskly. 

“I, uh, wanted to practice my pitch. Or, er, asking Ant for a pitch. Specifically.” 

“Sure! Give me two ticks.” She slipped into her room and then, not two minutes later, opened the door again, now in leggings and an oversized T-shirt. “Come on in, then.”

Her room was blessedly calm compared to the rest of the house, and reminded him of his sister’s teenaged bedrooms: muted pinks and purples, frilly pillows and drapes, and overflowing bookshelves, in Pen’s case about horses. “Alright.” She perched with one leg under her. “Go for it. You’ve got this!” 

He tried three times, stopping and starting and stuttering like a virgin, before finally making it through a request. Feeling quite like he wanted to vomit, he finally flopped, face-first, onto Pen’s bed. “This was a bad idea,” he groaned, directly into the duvet. “A terrible, no good, very bad idea.” 

“No, no!” Pen exclaimed, curling next to him and stroking his shoulder soothingly. “Come now. It’s a good idea. You believe in it , right? Then I believe in you.” 

He turned to face her. “You ever wonder if you have a purpose?” 

“Oh, all the time,” she said wryly. Her eyes were bright; her face took up his entire field of vision in an almost-disorienting way. He had never noticed just how pretty her blue eyes were, how expressive. “I think I do, honestly.” “Same,” he agreed. “And Ant, and Ben, and Daff, and now even El and Fran … they all have their purposes.” 

“I don’t know, I think everyone’s just stumbling through.” 

“Maybe.” He thought of Ant, how awful he’d been since France; Daff, starting this charity now that she’d conquered influencing. “What do you think your purpose is?” 

“Something … bigger than myself. A legacy. Something that takes me far away, introduces me to new worlds. I’m looking for it, but I hope it’s … writing.” 

“Your dreams are bigger than you let on, huh?”

“Definitely.” She swallowed, almost frightened, as she stared at him. “And you think this is yours?” She was so close to him he could feel her breathing, their chests so close to touching.

Falling into her would be the easiest thing.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” He shifted, and reached a hand out to her hip almost thoughtlessly. “I want it to be.”

“Well,” she said searchingly. “If you want it, you have to go after it. That’s the only answer.” 

He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Pen.” He really did like the haircut. She looked chic, and older. 

“Of course. And thank you for the necklace.” She touched the piece of jewelry around her neck.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “What are best friends for?”

“— And then, Prudence stands up, shimmies her shoulders, and yells, If you think they’re fake, come cop a feel ,” Tom finished with a laugh. It was a bit formal, but the story was pretty outrageous, and Kate found herself laughing along.

“I think I’m really missing out on some future BAFTA winners by not watching Kensington Bred ,” she replied, eyes sparkling. “Is the cast going to be here?” 

“Most definitely. Prudence will have the cameras. The network will probably cast the vicar.” He shook his head. “And you should hear some of the stories about Lady Portia.” 

“I’ve never really gotten that vibe from Pen,” Kate said, before she could help herself. Tom opened the door to the inn. “Oh — thank you.” 

The Featherington wedding was the biggest so far this season, though only, Kate had gleaned, because the Smith-Smythe-Westchester, Calthorpe, and Bridgerton-Bassett weddings were later in the summer. The Featheringtons’ timing felt intentional. Bad Dude Boris had rented out a modest castle (the Featheringtons had lost their estate about one hundred years ago, per Fran), but it was for the reception only. All the guests had been forced to fend for themselves and book lodgings. 

“You know Penelope well?” 

“Not particularly,” she replied. “She’s friends with Eloise Bridgerton …” She tilted her head in a ‘so you understand’ gesture. “She’s very lovely.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Tom’s smile was easy in return. He kissed her, rather spontaneously. “I’m really glad you came, Kate.” 

“Me too.” And it was true. She pecked him, lightly, back. 

The inn was cozy, with faded furniture and a long line of guests checking in. There had been a smaller welcome party Friday evening — Fran, El, and Col had gone, she knew — but most people had driven down early Saturday morning, like them. Kate nodded at a few people she’d met at various functions; only Lady Danbury smiled back. When they finally made it to the front Tom handled the logistics as she checked her phone; she was feeling distinctly unmoored from both work and Edwina’s game in Manchester. As she tapped away at a contracts email, though, Tom’s voice faded and was replaced by a more-familiar cadence of footsteps. She turned toward the stairs and saw Anthony.

And … Siena? 

A swirl of brown hair. The perfect height, in heels, to hide in his neck. Someone that made him laugh, as she’d seen in a half-dozen tabloid snaps.

Of-fucking-course.

“Well, well,” Ant said guardedly, their inadvertent eye contact making conversation impossible to avoid. Kate worked to make sure that her jaw was affixed to her face. Siena, perfect in a blue-and-white striped Oxford shirt dress, looked between them, watchful. “Take it you’re also heading to the Featherington wedding.” 

“Hi,” she said faintly. “Yes. How interesting.”   

Tom turned around, and Ant went positively stormy. “Oy. Bridge. Again.” He nodded, and  glanced at Kate. She tried to smile but she was pretty sure it didn’t hit her eyes. “And, Siena, right?” He held his hand out to shake. 

“Yes,” Siena smiled, clearly picking up on the awkwardness. Ant had frozen, completely. Kate felt like she could be completely swallowed, in that moment, by her anger and sadness and rage, and yet knew displaying any would do no good. At the other woman’s voice, she had a flash of defensiveness: Siena had been mean to Ant. But so, she had to admit, had she. “And you are …” she asked, finally shaking his hand. 

“Tom,” he said, at the same time Kate said her own name. “I went to school with Ant.” 

“And I’m, uh, a friend.” Kate blinked. “Of the family.”

“Kate was Ben’s friend at university,” Ant supplied. Siena, to her credit, absolutely did not buy that. She was gorgeous, in a petite, charming, casually confident way; she had the expectant expression of one who simply always knew what was what. Contrary to what one might expect from a midrange pop singer, she had an introverted and observant — or perhaps it was shrewd and subdued? — demeanor, though Kate supposed she wasn’t “on” right now.

Whatever. “Have he and Soph gotten here?” she asked him directly. She needed to find out, immediately, if her best friend knew about this. 

“I’m not sure,” he said levelly. “We left at different times.” Bro-dgerton code for one of them hadn’t been in the flat for days. “Anyways.” He nodded. “We should be going. See you around.” 

She turned to Tom. “Shall we find our room?” He just blinked, then nodded, before leading her upstairs. 

They settled into the room — floral comforter, mahogany furniture, standard English countryside stuff — and after he set down the bags, Dorset quickly swiped a brochure from a yellow-and-lime gift basket. “The reception is sponsored by East London Liquor, and the honeymoon by Turkish Airlines?” he read.

She snorted, digging through her purse for her sunnies. “What’s the point of all of Bad Dude Boris’s money if you still get sponsorships?” 

“Bad Dude Boris?” 

“Slightly Shad — Sasha’s dad, Boris? He’s quite wealthy from — well, you know.” She realized the nickname, and the rumors, might not be widely circulated. She’d just heard it all from El and Fran. 

Still no sunglasses. She switched to the bag. 

Tom raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Sasha’s always been a decent chap. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years around rich people, and they stay rich by being cheap.” She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that — her parents had similarly upmarket careers, and she’d started boarding at Wycombe at the same age he went to Eton, with the exact same exposure to rich people — but she thought of Ant, grounding Hy over snapchat credits, and reconsidered. “I had a roommate at Eton whose grandmother was a dowager countess in Scotland — no heating.” He really did mention Eton quite a bit. “Bring your own blanket, even in December.” 

She stood. “You know, I think I left my sunglasses in the car.”

“Want me to get them?”

“No, I’ll go.” She smiled, and he tossed her his keys.

She was tapping a message again to Edwina — responding to how are you liking this really I can’t believe you followed through with this — when the elevator doors opened, and she came face-to-face with Anthony. 

“ Fucking Christ.” She swore before she could stop herself, but stepped onto the elevator — she wasn’t going to be the one to leave. He stepped aside with an eye roll, and said nothing. 

Well, then. “Siena seems lovely ,” she snarked before she could help herself. “You should talk to Lady Featherington and perhaps save her money on the band.” She kept her tone light, arch, barbed. 

“That is surprisingly classist, coming from you.” His voice, in return, was snippy. “And at least she has talent, unlike Dorset, whom I’ve seen do karaoke. It’s not good .” He threw her a dark, mocking look.

“Oh, talent, that’s why you’re back with the woman who cheated on you.” According to Daff and Ben — and she’d picked up on things — they’d barely clocked as ‘together,’ certainly not exclusive, and yet she clearly had enough of a thrall that he was back with her, two weeks later. “Real forward movement, there, Ant.”  

“And so is accepting a date from a man who’d been pursuing you for weeks .” 

She snorted at his exaggeration. “And yet I never responded,” she retorted. “Even though it was allowed by our rules .” 

The elevator door opened, and they both exited. Neither, though, had a desire to quit goading the other — all of the ways that Ant had always flummoxed and vexed her had inverted with unrelenting, unstoppable ugliness, morphed into a desire to keep arguing until he cried uncle or realized that she was correct. So they grimly stayed magnetized, walking quite close to each other smiling woodenly as they passed other guests, biding time until they could argue again. This time, the others  smiled back at her. “It’s really great to see you sticking to your goals, Anthony,” she hissed as they smiled at the Fifes.

“At least I have them, Kate.” His arrogance very lightly masked the fact that he was very close to completely losing his shit, she noticed, as she pushed open the front door to the hotel. “I’m not standing still. I am trying to move forward .” She could almost hear him bring up the PD test, and she rushed to cut him off.  

“You know —” She spun, and was nose-to-nose under the blinding sun — “You made it very clear that you wanted to be with some Moderately Eligible who didn’t have a career, who was as Sloaney as your mother, and who wanted some nice, quiet, separated life. Which is why I was apparently just good for a fuck in a country house.” She was no longer sure what to think — about him, about them, about her own orientation to them . “And now, suddenly, you’re back with someone who probably calls the mags when she goes out for sushi.” She raised an eyebrow. “So yeah. I’d call this moving backwards , Anthony.”   

“And what do you call what you’re doing?” he countered, nose tightening in brief spurts but his voice still annoyingly calm. “You always claim to be so busy; but you’re actually just scared, Kate, of getting close to people. I told you what I wanted, you ran . Still wanting that — that’s not something I get blamed for.” 

“You made it clear who you wanted from the beginning.You made clear it was not me.” Her voice began to scrape and ache. She knew that she had been clear about what she wanted upfront, she knew that she had been planning to break it off in London — but since Paris, she hadn’t been quash a wild and stupid and dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, it had been about her, not about his timeline. Contracts, after all, could be amended. But there was a casually cruel calculus to him showing up with a woman he had liked, and dated, in the past: His picture of a wife was clearly drawn in pencil; his plan for a marriage perhaps less fixed than he said as well. He was willing to shift and compromises. Just not for her. And his timeline … clearly, that mattered more than her, if he could move on that quickly.   

And so she was trapped in an emotional vortex of still wanting him and also hating him and also feeling like absolute shit because she never could have been good enough for him. “I was never even in the equation, you told me. But now you’re pursuing your goals with someone who does not match what you said you wanted. Some you like . And, in Paris … I thought your suggestion had something to do with me, specifically  ...” She looked away and then back. “But it had nothing to do with me, did it? It really was never about me.” He could move on quickly precisely because she had just been a matter of convenience, there when Viscount and CEO Anthony Bridgerton’s schedule dictated he find a partner and settle down. 

It was devastating. 

“I asked you . I offered you everything . You , first. You , only. You said no.”

She shook her head, willing the tears to stay at bay. “Not first, or only.” He had asked Siena first, and he had gone back to her , but he looked so surprised that she wondered if he honestly remembered his first proposal. “Or everything.” Her voice broke, just a bit, on the last word. You truly just view marriage as a box to check and I … I thought I at least mattered. Because we mattered, to me .” She stepped back, her voice trailing off, the inadvertent truth too bright and painful. “And so of course you’re back with Siena, Anthony,” she finished contemptuously. He truly was shallow, selfish, careless; a compilation of all her worst suspicions. She spun, finding Tom’s Audi, opened it to dig for her sunglasses. 

He stood behind her, frozen. “Do you just dislike me, now? Is this it?” His words were raw and furious and hurt. 

Finding the damned things in the seat cushion, she twirled around, completely at the end of her rope with him. “You confuse me. You … vex me. But you think because I disapprove of your choices, I dislike you? No. It means I thought better of you.”  

“So you taunt me? Come here with Dorset?” His voice was weak, broken, petulant. “Accept his offer of a date within my earshot?” His voice, nearly silent, trailed off. She wondered, for the first time, that under all his boneheaded callousness, if he might have been hurt by her actions, her words — and not just feeling, for the first time in his life, the sting of a firm no. “You moved on first, Kate.”  

She looked away, but stuck to her miserable guns. “I didn’t change. I said I didn’t want something serious, and broke it off when you tried to … modify our agreement. I wasn’t stupid enough to come up with a list of ground rules, but this, right now, a light date to a wedding? It is truly casual, and exactly what I said I wanted. You’re the one who keeps changing his mind and then getting mad at me for not reading it.” 

He was quiet, contained, frustratingly unreadable. “I didn’t ask you to read my mind. I asked you to be with me. You said no . What else did you want me to do?”

She didn’t have an answer. 

He tilted his head up, stepped back, and went back into the hotel.

Somewhere in this ballroom, Benedict Bridgerton determined, his mother was surely having a microstroke. The entire wedding was either Lady Portia’s finest hour, or the complete and utter downfall of taste as Society knew it.

Perhaps both. 

Definitely both. 

The ceremony had been early that afternoon; everyone in orange and yellow and green. The eye-melting palette put everyone on edge from the beginning: El and Col squabbled about Lady Whistledown; Ant, there with a coolly elegant Siena (wearing a muted key lime), arrived in an uptight mood; Daff and Lady Vi clucked lowly at Ant, Si shifted uneasily next to Daff. Only Sophie — who had, purely for her own amusement, worn a two-foot long feathered orange fascinator —  seemed to take in the scene with the proper appreciation for the absurd, and they spent the first ten minutes quietly assessing the Russians’ attempts at British fashion. But even that had come to an end when Kate and Dorset walked in, and Sophie had to have an nonverbal conversation about Ant with Kate.  

Pippa’s entrance down the aisle had been delayed as they set up the camera angles; when she finally appeared, she was wearing the largest tiara Ben had ever seen, at least three times the size of what Bex had worn at her wedding to Nick, miles of fake hair piled on top of the crown. Ben — who had split a tiny, tiny joint with Col, El, and Soph ahead of time — had immediately snorted with laughter, until Sophie clapped a hand over his mouth and hissed that Slightly Shady Sasha had purchased it as a betrothal gift — it had been a Romanov’s one hundred years ago. The vows had been over the top; the only thing more eyeroll-inducing were Lady Portia’s cries, ricocheting against the old stone of the church. 

Cocktail hour was on the lawn of the cheap rented castle, and was unraveling with the same level of ostentatious inanity as the ceremony, this time to a vague theme of “Russian Circus.” True money showed its power through restraint, but Portia had no money and Bad Dude Boris no real power, and consequently they collectively had no restraint.

Large bottles of liquor branded with the East London Liquor logo arced behind the bars; boats of orange and yellow flowers were everywhere; even at five PM, disco lights pulsed erratically to house music. Everything veered wildly from amusingly ostentatious to delightfully tacky to questionably revolting, and often all three at once. The Russian Olympic rhythmic gymnastics team, each member on a small round pedestal, contorted themselves around ribbons for entertainment; men swallowing fire walked among the guests, to applause and shrieks; mimes in cages acted out scenes nobody followed. Children hung around the paddocks of Siberian tigers and bears and thoroughbred horses, which Soph, Kate, and El all agreed was animal-rights abuse. Ben nodded at at least three of the London club scene’s most notorious dealers. The sun hadn’t even set yet, and Ben felt like he was in the twilight of a very long night out in a very seedy, vaguely sad city.

The hangover would be terrific. 

Lady Whistledown was right that they had transformed the six-foot-tall fountain in the center of the garden into a vodka fountain. Pippa’s friends milled by it, sliding cups into the liquid and getting fortysomething businessmen to take photos of them catching vodka spitting out of a nymph’s breasts with their mouths. Kate laughed with Dorset and a few Oxbridge bros; twenty feet away Ant and Siena spoke with Lady Danbury. A loud group of Russians, including the former Premier, were surrounding Sasha and Pippa and swinging swords, singing a song that probably involved a lot of moose and vodka. He rolled his eyes; so many pathetic sweaty men in one place. 

“Need a drink?” Soph asked, materializing next to him and looking ravishing in a hot-pink Jacquemus slip dress, her hair a halo of curls. “I have a glass of wine and a flask of not-bottom-shelf gin in my purse.” She wiggled the clutch. 

“Gin. Please” he said with a groan, looping an arm around her shoulder. “Lifesaver.” 

She passed it over with a smirk. “Your mother even told me that I looked lovely this evening. I think that means you are officially in the less-stressful half of her children right now.” It was a rare occasion, truly. 

“Well, obviously Ant, totally in the shitter. El just accused the Prime Minister of Turkey of being a sexist pig —” Kate had quickly hauled her off — “and Col is clearly trying to avoid Marina. And maybe up to something. Greg got caught with porn and weed by one of the housekeepers. Oh, and Hy was given a demerit yesterday for ‘utter rudeness’ to the headmistress.” They glided carelessly through the various packs: the Eastern European strongmen; Pru’s castmates, setting up a shot; Pippa’s horsey boarding-school friends; their overlapping circles of London twentysomethings; Actual Society. 

“So you’re definitely in the middle of the rankings, then,” Soph teased. She squeezed his elbow. “Thank you for coming with me.” 

“Well it’s always hard to top Fran and Daff.” He shifted. “Did you sign a lease for your apartment?” 

“I did!” She grinned. “A whole floor of this gorgeous old marble heap, two blocks from the Piazza della Scala. It’s beautiful.” 

“You’ll love Italy.” 

“I will,” she affirmed. “Later. Tonight, I love this.”  She looked around, and burst into peals of delighted laughter. “Gosh, tonight, I really love this.” He looked around, and had to laugh, too. 

“Dehydrated borscht?” A waiter offered, holding up a tray of delicate pink wafers.

“Fucking absolutely,” he answered in return. 

Dinner was inside, five courses of various meats, followed by six toasts — copious time for drinking. He and Soph got a little too drunk and silly watching Ant and Daff try to be polite with one another, watching Daff try to make conversation with Siena. Siena was perfectly lovely, if a terrible idea, everyone but Daff agreed; when the third course of meat (venison) arrived, she stared at it and quipped, “I rather feel like I’m in an episode of The Time of Swords and Dragons .” Ant laughed, made a joke with the rest of them in return. 

Across the way, Col, El, Fran and Pen were drinking merrily, various Russians stopping by to toast them with shots. “Their table looks more fun than ours,” he pointed out conspiratorially to Soph. 

The night got hazy and boozy, fading as they went back to the garden for dancing. There was — thank fuck — a band for the dancing, and it quickly became a wild, delicious fever dream, with too many insane, memorable, perfect scenes playing out at once: Prudence and one of her castmates filming a weeping resolution to a fight; older Russian men striking out with Pippa’s friends; Ant and Kate doing the most elaborate choreography of the night simply to avoid each other. Slightly Shady Sasha, in the most vibrant burst of emotion Ben had seen at any wedding, grabbed the mic and sang My Heart Will Go On to Pippa, bringing the wedding to an utter halt. Immediately after the last note he grabbed a sword to cut the cake; Ben knew he’d be dissecting the symbolism for the rest of his life. In a corner, his mother, Lady Danbury, and several other mothers kept drinking.

And every time he saw something funny, he turned to Sophie, pointed it out, made her laugh. Simon’s if you’re sleeping with someone and you mock Prudence Featherington with her, that’s love echoed in his head as he and Sophie decided to make out behind Pru’s scene, simply to be arseholes. It was all a glow of a feeling, of an experience, all the better because of Sophie, that felt hard to top, he thought later, as he spun her around on the dance floor. He murmured, “I get why you wanted to share a name card at dinner.”

She spun, facing him and molding her body to his. “Oh?” 

“Come back and come to Daff’s wedding with me,” he said. “Move to Italy. Do your thing, Soph.” It was a spontaneous observation more than an offer, and they both knew this, but still — . “But come to Daff’s. Let’s do a repeat.” 

She looked up. Everything was always so much easier when they were dancing. “OK,” she whispered, simply. 

Later — twenty minutes or two hours, Ben absolutely could not tell or care — they snuck up to the castle, his hands ghosting around her ribcage as he kissed her long, lovely neck, trying to find a semi-alone room. He wrested a door open, pushed her against the wall in an alcove, dipped his head down her chest, nosed under her dress to find more, more, more glorious, tawny skin. His fingers slid up the slit in the dress, ghosting her thighs and trailing up, up, up as she moaned. 

And then, he heard a laugh. He concentrated on Soph — they had once had sex under a blanket at Glastonbury, this was hardly their most public encounter — but then he heard Col’s voice say, “Want to get out of here, Pen?” and the mood was effectively ruined.

Soph heard it, too, pushing him off of her to take a wide-eyed peek out of their alcove. There, rising from a sofa, was a decidedly mussed Penelope Featherington, and Col, wiping his mouth. He leaned forward and kissed her sweetly. Ben had seen many things in his lifetime and yet, his jaw dropped.

“Holy fuck,” he said as soon as they’d slipped out the door.

“Well,” Sophie said. “You might actually be your mother’s favorite son this week.”

The only word Kate could come up with for the Featherington wedding was surreal . At the ceremony across the aisle, she was pretty sure Colin and Benedict were high; it was truly the only way to have consumed the ceremony. She’d worn a yellow Brandon Maxwell dress to fit the unofficial theme, grateful that the Featheringtons’ bad taste at least worked in brown girls’ favor. 

Walking up the aisle with Tom, though, had been the first time that she agreed with all of Ant’s cantankerous proclamations about Society: the people observing, evaluating, commenting behind gloved hands. She should be less surprised — after all, a month ago she’d been Ant’s unofficial date at a Bridgerton ball — but it simply hadn’t occurred to her that people would care, or judge. But she knew that the Bridgertons’ wealth and power offered both status as well as a stamp of interestingness. The breakup apparently decreased one and increased the other. Daff, kindly, heard the tittering, and sent her a very obvious wave. 

She’d noticed Ant, of course, but honestly the wedding itself was so entertaining nothing pulled focus. Someone fainted, Lady Portia sobbed, several Russian guests clearly carried serious weapons. They made eye contact precisely once, sharing a guilty, knowing smile when Prudence mispronounced all the Russian names when reading the Kitty-Levin wedding scene in Anna Karenina . 

But ridiculous as it all was — and it was truly, epically farcical — it was still a wedding . Kate had been to several growing up: Mum and Appa’s, then many from her father’s extended family back in Delhi, and several, both Hindu and English, as her father’s trainees grew up. But she hadn’t been to any as an adult, and the faith and the folly of it all struck her: Here were two people, deeply imperfect, promising before God, eight hundred people, and television cameras that they were going to put each other first, for the rest of their lives.

Perhaps they would fail. But the beauty would be in the trying.   

When they said I do , Kate felt a tear in her eye. 

Several hours later, the event had somehow devolved even further into chaos. Kate tried to circulate, and felt stunning in her orange-sequined, silver-appliqued Erdem dress. But she was honestly fading quite quickly; despite Ben, Sophie, and Ant’s sisters working overtime to appear as if nothing had happened — and Kate preventing El from starting an international incident — plenty of people still chattered, and she felt on display. 

Previously, she had never cared about what people thought  — she had known herself, and liked herself, and that quieted any noise. And, she realized, at Wycombe and Oxford and beyond, her wry equanimity had let her slice through easily and, honestly, with good favor. She was well-liked by Ben’s set in part because she didn’t need to be liked by them. Before the Black Book party — before Ant — she had known what to think, and expect, and had been happy with her place on the edge of the whole ecosystem, had barely noticed any of it. And now that she was clearly either on the outside or the way down, she felt off-balance.    

The truth was, an entire wedding weekend was perhaps an insane third date. She barely knew Tom, and his circle of friends were somehow more obnoxious and status-obsessed than a viscount, a duke, and a prince were. They’d melded easily into a boisterous group with some of Sasha’s friends. That left her quite alone as she wandered through the rolling fog — there had been a pyrotechnic introduction of the bride and groom — to the bar. 

“Miss Sharma.” The voice behind her was crisp, and sure. “I’m glad to see you here.” 

She turned to see Lady Danbury. The sixty-something woman was honestly the most impressive person Kate had ever met — a peer, a former Ambassador, a member of Parliament, an author, and an Oxford dean, in addition to being one of the most in-demand invitations in London. “Lady Danbury.” She smiled. “I’m happy to see you, as well.” 

“I am, of course, surprised to see you with Tom Dorset. An eager young man, of course.” She cocked her head. “I had just grown used to seeing you with Anthony.” 

“Tom is lovely, yes,” she returned. “And Anthony and I were only ever friends.” She reconsidered. “Are still friends, I hope.” 

“I sense you’re as stubborn as he is on that account,” Lady Danbury said. “Do call if you ever need advice. And, chin up.” And she disappeared, quite literally, into the fog. 

Kate grabbed a drink and started to wander back, mindlessly spinning the bangle she wore. With a start, it fell off her wrist, and rolled over to … Anthony. Of course. He picked it up, turned the emerald- and diamond-studded band for a better look at the intricate design.

“I’ll be taking that back, thank you.” She smiled.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, his voice gentle, still examining it.

“It was my amma’s,” she replied. As always he reflexively pulled more from her than she planned to share. “Appa gave them to her for their wedding.” He raised an eyebrow, and she wordlessly held out her wrist for him to affix it. “Can we … talk?” 

He glanced up. Siena had — with very little persuasion, Kate noted waspishly — climbed on stage and was singing “Dancing on my Own” with the band. Not very wedding-y, truly. Easygoing, friend-making Tom had disappeared with the Oxbros and the Eurotrashy Russians for cigars. Nobody would miss them. 

They didn’t speak as they walked up to the castle, his hand on the small of her back. She realized that plenty of other couples had probably slipped up for a tryst — she hadn’t seen Sophie in at least an hour — and hoped that they could, at least, find an empty space. 

Dinner had taken place in a series of interconnected rooms — truly, the house was more of a nice manor than a castle — and they slipped into one of the smaller ones, with a fire crackling in the mild June night. 

“You know, I haven’t asked — are you alright? Health-wise, I mean.” His voice was so careful, and earnest, that she almost laughed.

“You mean, because of the PD gene?” He nodded. “Yes, of course. I told you, it doesn’t impact my daily life.” She took a deep breath. “I just wanted — to apologize. I feel I’ve gotten … emotional. Over our past few interactions.” She took a step closer, tried to steady her voice. “I’ve found myself … angrier than I’ve expected, and I’ve taken it out on you. Which is unfair. So. I’m sorry.” 

He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He was so beautiful, and sad, and controlled.  “You’ve been straightening your hair lately,” he noticed, his voice hoarse. She closed her eyes, and melted as his palm cupped her cheek. “I … need to apologize too. I … you mattered , Kate. Of course you did. You . So much. Too much. You still do , and that’s … that’s my problem, but I’m sorry that I made you think you didn’t.” He moved closer, his breath a whisper across her face. 

“I’ve missed you,” she exhaled, the words a secret sent directly into his mouth. “I have.” 

“And I …” His nose traced lightly over her cheekbones, the bridge of her own nose. “And I’ve missed you.” The words shuddered into her, making her whole even as they shattered her. 

“Siena —” she started, her voice a question. He continued to roam her face, close but not touching, battling against his extraordinary self-discipline. A hand dropped to her waist, traced up to her breast. She ran a hand down his chest, felt his sturdy, steady heart. The room was so quiet she could hear the seconds tick on his father’s watch.  

“I still … I want to get married, Kate. Partly for my family, partly for my father, but … partly for the company and companionship. I know you judge. I know you question. You do not need to approve. But you, I suspect — because you brought Tom Dorset, of all amiable lunks —” She pushed against him a bit with a murmur of a laugh, but only a small amount, it was as much as her traitorous body could protest — “that you still do not want children. Or anything serious.” 

She did not or she could not or she would not, but the distinction didn’t matter — the conclusions were the same, anyways. “No,” she admitted. “And we could not keep pretending that those things could coexist.” 

The spell should have been broken, but he moved her even closer, aligning their bodies, their heartbeats. He pressed his lips to her cheek and she sighed, gripping his waist, urging him on. Her nose traced that perfect space in his neck, memorizing his smell. She knew it would be the last time she’d be this close to him. “I want you,” he admitted, heatedly and forcefully, the words thrumming with power, binding her in place, reflexively filling her with hope and desire and still — unbidden — fear and dread. “Every part of you . Mind, jokes, opinions, laugh, lips, hands, competitive streak, snarky comments, smirks, heart, curls, tits, legs, cunt. All of you.” His lips were almost directly on her temple, the letters marking her skin, the words scorching into her ears. “Even —” he swallowed — “when you’re the absolute bane of my existence. I’m afraid I’ll always want you, that you’re just … burned into me, your smell, your smiles. Your maniacal American driving, your obsession with Beyonce, your refusal to pack the right coat when it’s cold. Everything. I want you, and we want different things. And I … I am not a perfect man, but I am a gentleman. And I am hanging on by a shred of self-control right now.”

One or both of them stepped back. She closed her eyes, to keep the tears at bay. This was not what she expected, this was not under her control, but perhaps … Perhaps it was the best way to get back there.“We should try not to keep meeting like this,” she said quietly. A kindness, to both of them. “I almost think … maybe we’re too similar. We just drive each other mad.”     

He nodded soberly. “We need time, and space. We can’t go back, we can only go forward. And right now … neither of us can move on, Kate. I thought, once, when things ended … we could stay friends. But I will never stop thinking about you, if we keep throwing ourselves in each other’s paths. You can have the Thames, the Kensington Club, whatever sibling, whatever party, whatever dinner or event or wedding you want. Just please … some space.” His eyes were earnest, and haunted, and so very sad. 

She closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts. He was right; breaking the chain was, truly, the only way forward. With a swift, gentle kiss on his lips, she whispered, “Goodbye, Anthony.” 

Chapter Text

“What happened? Why? Why didn’t they work out?” “What always happens. Life.” — (500) Days of Summer

Anthony awoke, with unrelenting predictability, at 5:15 the morning after the Featherington wedding. He hadn’t needed an alarm clock in years and he could tell, immediately — despite the fact that he had not fallen asleep until at least midnight — that he was up for the rest of the day. 

The light was still a dark grey; the only sound his father’s watch ticking steadfastly. He gently untangled himself from Siena, slipping the blanket back over her bare breast, and grabbed his boxer-briefs, shorts, and tennis shoes. He was reasonably certain that he was the only person awake in the entire inn — if anyone was masochistic enough to be up it was Kate, and she was an early riser truly only through willpower, four alarms, and the wonders of caffeine. He seriously doubted that Dorset knew or would put in that amount of effort for a five-mile run.

Nevertheless, he took the back stairwell. It felt only polite after their conversation. 

Five miles turned into eight miles and got him back just after 6:30; the extra paces necessary to beat his mind into nothingness, to internalize the mantra that It Is Necessary to Avoid Kate. His thoughts still swirled. He could not accept that Benedict was right that he was in love with her; nevertheless like he’d told her, she, and her damned perfume, were so deeply embedded in his senses that he started conversations with her in his head before realizing that she simply wasn’t there. He had not been exaggerating, last night, that his dignity was hanging by a thread, it was simply too brutal, too raw, too natural, to be near her. She didn’t want the things he did — she didn’t want him — and he couldn’t put his entire life on hold for her. It was awful, and yet it was the only way forward. He had given her all of England and only hoped it was enough for him to move on. 

He realized he had been speeding up, going much much too fast, and paused, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. 

None of this was truly productive. Best not to dwell. With a deep breath, he steadied himself to go back inside. 

Siena was already up and in the shower when he arrived back. Setting down the coffee he’d grabbed in the lobby, he popped his head in. “Morning, pet,” he said. “I grabbed coffee. We should try and be on the road by seven-thirty.” 

“Heya,” she said, sticking her head out of the shower. She took in his appearance with a nod. “You go on a run, eh?” 

He shrugged. “When you’re up, you’re up.” 

“You’re a strange man, Anthony Bridgerton,” she teased, with a fond smile. “I’ll be out in two ticks.” 

“You want me to join?” He smirked as he grabbed his toothbrush.

“Depends on how badly you want to leave on time. Knowing you … that’s quite badly.” With a wink, she snapped the shower curtain shut. 

Once they’d switched places, she started brushing her teeth and applying her face serums at the sink. “You know, all that money on endangered animals and they could have sprung for a morning-after brunch,” she said, voice slightly elevated over the running water. “God knows they served enough cheap vodka last night.” 

“Oh, they did,” he replied, soaping up his hair. “Spring for a brunch, I mean.” 

“Oh?” 

“Portia Featherington is an acquired taste, and my mother acquired about a year’s worth last night.” Bridgerton Brunch would be, as always, ten A.M. at Bridgerton House. Hangovers and hookups were not excuses to be late.

Siena laughed, merry and knowing. “Was it the fire-eaters, the Duma playing Russian roulette, or the Eurovision competition that really set it over the edge?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes,” he shot back. 

They hit the road at exactly 7:28, exclaiming sleepy looks at the concierge with Daff and Si. “You think Ben and Col are going to make it back?” Daff, half-dead behind her enormous Chanel sunglasses, murmured. She smiled at Siena, which Ant considered progress. “I didn’t see either of them past nine last night.” 

Ant chuckled. “Ben’s showed up to brunch with less than two hours of sleep after an orgy with shrooms. He’s a cockroach. And Col probably went to bed as soon as he got three pieces of cake.” 

Daff snorted, involuntarily. “It wasn’t even good cake, poor bloke.” 

As soon as they checked out, Siena curled into the passenger seat of the Jag and dozed off for half an hour. When she awoke, he reached his hand over to capture hers, gave her fingers a gentle kiss. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said. “I really appreciated it.” 

She beamed, a megawatt smile that had graced dozens of magazine covers, that could make you feel like the luckiest bastard in the world. She surely had more teeth than the regular person. “I loved coming with you,” she returned. “I’m really happy we bumped into each other at that loud old club.”  

It had been, he had to agree, a most surreal week. 

He’d first met Siena nearly two and a half years earlier — she had sung “In My Life” for Nick and Bex’s first dance at their wedding reception in Buck House. Siena had grown up in a council house in Wolverhampton, “poorer than poor” as she stated in every mag interview, the only girl and youngest of four. Her dad had left when she was five. She’d been arts-mad since a small child, and gone to a drama school for secondary. Instead of university she’d moved to London and waitressed, hoping to make it, “however I could,” she always said. At nineteen, she’d auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent — and won. 

She’d been signed to a five-album deal, and had a brief, brilliant string of successes: A Brit Award for her debut, power ballads about love mixed over house beats, at twenty-one; seats at some of the best fashion shows by twenty-two; an extremely high-profile heartbreak with a Formula One driver named Pierre-Michel when she was twenty-three and he was forty-one. But perhaps her crowning achievement had come at age twenty-five, when she sang the main theme for the highest-grossing film of the decade, a Romeo and Juliet -style story about a vampire and a werewolf’s forbidden romance and their mutual (and very explicit) sexual awakening. She’d performed at the Oscars, on every American nighttime show, won a Grammy off of it. For a wild and glorious eighteen months, she’d been everywhere: selling Pepsi, guest-judging Britain’s Got Talent and mentoring the youths about fame, feuding with one American starlet and becoming best friends with another.

After the deeply pleasant Nick-Bex wedding hookup, he’d never expected to see her again, but they’d bumped into each other at Soho House a year and a half later. A few rounds of sake, and they’d ended up at his place, him bending her over his dresser until she screamed. And that had been that, for nearly nine months. The most maddening, inexplicable relationship he’d ever been in. 

Because Siena was unpredictable , in an exhilarating, alluring, occasionally exasperating way. She had a fragility and charisma that could convince thousands, night after night, that she was experiencing the highest highs and the lowest lows of love right in front of them. She was tempestuous, and tempting; she probably felt tenfold more emotions than the average person. She was sensitive, occasionally moody; he could never predict how she might react in a situation. It kept him coming back, asking her questions, poking and prodding to see if she thought he was funny or an arse. He’d seen her cry over rescue-dog commercials and tell some of the most powerful music producers in Europe where exactly they could shove it. 

She was deeply moral, a vegan whose vice was expensive champagne and a cigarette when she’d had one glass too many. Although British by birth she had a Californian’s sense of destiny and purpose. She meditated for thirty minutes every morning, ran 10Ks for charity, and handled her money and team with more savvy than most of his managing directors. She wanted to perform in front of the biggest crowds imaginable, but bit her nails to the quick before every performance, and had never once listened to one of her recordings — if it came on the radio, she would shriek and cover her ears until you changed the station. 

Siena poured herself into things, and hustled. She took every brand deal or appearance fee she could negotiate. Ant worked hard because it brought him value and purpose and distraction outside his inheritance; he tended to associate with people (Ben, Nick, Si, Kate, Daff) who had similar perspectives: hardworking and responsible, but with plenty of confidence that they owned the space they were occupying. His circle didn’t lack confidence, or ponder failure. Siena was different: she yearned, in a way that was more hopeful, needier, more breakable than anything else. Siena was a whirl of dreams and doubts and moodboards and Instagram posts thanking God (though she had never gone to church and didn’t know if she was baptized).

He found her fascinating; he found she made things easy to forget.  

When she’d thrown him out in March — telling him, flat-out, that he was a selfish cad who lacked all manner of empathy, common sense, romance, and timing — he had honestly never expected to see her again. And he hadn’t really thought of her since, until he’d seen her dancing in that blue-striped cabana.

After his club apology, they’d stumbled into his apartment, fucked until his mind was blissfully clear for the first time in two weeks. He’d awoken the next morning to her trying to slip out, a soft shit as her phone tumbled out of her jeans. “Grab breakfast?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his eye. 

And so they’d found a coffee shop, selected scones, and talked for the first time in four months. Maybe longer. It had been a rough go for her: the drummer was a “distraction,” a friend she’d always occasionally hooked up with. It was nothing serious, certainly not something long-term or with strings. She’d been in the final three in contention for the theme song for the new James Bond movie, and they’d passed on her. When she went to renegotiate her record deal, they’d pointed out that her only truly global hit — from the vampire-werewolf movie — was five years ago; her last two albums sold much worse than her first three; and she hadn’t had a number-one hit in five years. She was thirty and close to being a has-been. 

“And the deal they offered me was total shit, it would have made you angry. Just crushing , honestly.” She’d explained everything with her eyes brilliantly wide, imploring him to believe her. “So I’m taking some time. Thinking about it.” She had always liked sticking up for what was right. She had been appointed a World Water Association ambassador two years ago and found purpose in those trips, and she’d done a Day of the Child video for UNICEF’s Geneva office last year and gotten inspired by the mission. They felt like something, something that made her curious. “A singing career — that can have an expiration date. And I’m more than just my music. So if I can figure out how to leverage what I’ve gained into something enduring, something that goes beyond just making music and creates more positivity in the world — I’d be happy with that. So that’s it. Gotta diversify my revenue, as your kind would say.” 

It had been a good conversation, warmer and kinder than he expected, and when it came time for him to run to Bridgerton Brunch, he’d asked her, impulsively, to come to this absurd wedding with him. 

And tensions with his family aside — Daff and Mother had plenty of comments behind their gloves; Ben and Col smirks and eyerolls — he’d had a good time with her. She was slyly funny, genial with new people, clearly very capable of putting others at ease with her bright clear laugh. She hadn’t put herself in the middle of everything, but she also wasn’t a wallflower — when asked, she’d hopped right up on stage and sung a few songs, got everybody going. It was truly a nice and thoughtful gesture. He honestly felt a little bit like her date, not the other way around.

Though there were honestly far worse ways to spend your time. 

“I’m happy we’ve bumped into each other, too,” he started. “It’s been wonderful to spend time together.” 

She laughed, delighted. “Oh no, is a speech coming?” she teased. 

He shifted. “I know I handled our last conversation poorly,” he said, clearly referring to the March fight, which they hadn’t discussed. “And — truly, it’s nice to be back spending time together. But I … I was quite serious, Siena. Being the president of Bridgerton Group will require certain things of me. Of my partner, since a wife and a family are required for me. And I … I need to keep that in mind. It’s non-negotiable, and if that doesn’t work for you, I’d rather part now, as friends.” He swallowed. Kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts, steadfastly, not on Kate. 

“Bridge, if this is a proposal, I hoped that you had learned I’d like dinner, first,” she said, sitting up, teasing but deadly serious.

“I’m not —”

“But you’re also not ,” she pointed out. “Am I right?” 

He sighed. “I am trying . I’m simply saying if that isn’t remotely of interest to you, please say so now.” 

She was quiet. “So who is Kate? I mean, really ?” she asked. 

He stared at the road. “A friend.” 

“A friend of Ben’s?” She repeated, skeptically. 

“They did go to university together,” he explained, reluctantly. “We were … involved, briefly, if that’s what you’re asking. And I … cared for her.” She let out a low whistle. “A lot.” Siena raised an eyebrow. “But she is clear — and has many good reasons — for not wanting a family. And I have many reasons for wanting a family. We parted amicably, and she remains friends with Ben, Daff, Bex. But she won’t be a factor here.” 

“So you’re just knocking on doors until you find someone whose goals match yours?” she replied, with a challenging arch of her eyebrow. Her look was careful, expectant, flinty. 

“Is it wrong to have goals?” he pushed back in turn. She shook her head, looked away, then looked back, open and curious. “Because ours, Siena … they align,” he said. “We’re compatible.” She smirked, taking it sexually. “Yes, we enjoy each other’s company. But I want a partner who is interested in charity work, in creating a home and raising children, in maintaining my family’s profile responsibly. And you — do . You want to do more of that.” But more importantly she needed that. He could offer her protection, and a platform. She was smart enough to see the value. “I am not proposing, I am not making any final … declarations. I am simply saying, I think this could have a lot of potential, a lot of good here. I think we understand each other, I do, and I don’t feel that often. And if or whenever you don’t see the same — I only ask that you tell me when you do.” 

“So you’re not proposing —”

“Well I am not that dense anymore —” he joked. 

She laughed but was serious. “But you are … proposing a deal?”

“Absolutely not.” He had learned that lesson. “I’m just saying … We like each other. I care for you. We laugh together. We could have something good here.” 

Because he had known, since he met her, how badly she wanted to break into Society. She’d made the right friends, used the right forks, adopted the right cut-glass pronunciations. Had molded herself into respectability, had attended the right parties and events, and yet she needed a push over the edge.

The striving had annoyed him, previously. She was always too much or not enough, an eager pupil but never fluent. His family didn’t help: After Freddie, Daff found hangers-on suspicious, his mother called them all WAGs. 

But, honestly … all the Moderately Eligibles he dated were boring, and yes, Siena wanted to be in Society, but was that so terrible? He was fond of Siena, liked her company, and she represented a compromise between what he needed and what he wanted. 

It was hardly an unthinkable fate, he reasoned. It may actually be the best deal out of the whole situation. 

She was quiet. “I’m not saying no, Bridge. But you also … it needs to not be about you and all your requirements, if we continue. Like, already, this is a lot to process on a hangover and six hours of sleep.” 

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to be upfront—”

“I’m not one of your companies in arbitrage. You can’t just throw down a gauntlet every conversation and say the two options are accept or walk away. There was a lot of good and a decent amount of bad last time around, and that was some of the bad. I can’t live like that.” 

“I understand that.” He nodded attentively, though he wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. “I’m sorry. It was a lot.” 

“Thank you.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. 

“So is that a yes?” 

“It’s an I’m thinking about it .” 

He smirked. “I would have one request, though.”

“T hat wasn’t a request?” she snorted.

“Just … another, then. But, a last one. Please.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I … There is no room in my life for the press, Siena,” he said seriously. “Everything else, I am happy to discuss. But Daff’s life was hell with Freddie, and before, when my father died … It’s not healthy, it’s not good, to go out to curry and wonder if there’s a photographer in the bushes.” 

She scoffed. “Ant, your best friend is the future King .” 

“I’m not saying, no photos ever. I’m saying that I cannot invite them in.” He shifted. He was confident — though it would be crass to admit — that the trade-off between public interest and a place in high society would be too powerful for Siena to ignore. “I apologize if this is coming on strong. I would like for this to work, and so I’d rather get it all out there.” 

“You took us from a nostalgic fling to pre-engaged in sixty minutes, everything is definitely all out there,” she quipped. 

“Hyacinth tells me I have no chill,” he replied dryly.

“I think your baby sister is right.” She sighed. “Anyways. That was a lot to process, and to put on someone when you’re hurtling seventy miles per hour on the M5.” She shifted. “You’re fun, Bridge, and I like that you’re honestly all heart under all that curmudgeonliness. And yeah, I want kids, a family, one day. But I guess, if you want a relationship to work, if you want this relationship to work … Prove it.” 

“Excuse me?”

“Show me. Show up. Prove to me you want to make it work, that you’re putting in the work. That you want this, with me, specifically. If you can do that …” Her eyes flitted out the window, then back to him, bright and clear. “I have no objections to your goals with our relationship.”  

He smiled, warm all over. “Prove it?” 

“You heard me, Bridgerton.” 

“Siena Rosso,” he said, very very seriously. “Will you … be exclusive with me?” 

In response, she cackled, then kissed him.

By the time Pen awoke, the sun was already a glorious butter-yellow, streaming in the curtains. For a second she forgot where she was or what had happened, and then she felt Colin’s warm, dense weight around her: a leg thrown over her thigh, a hand wrapped loosely under her breasts. Then she remembered: She had slept with Colin, and it had been fucking fantastic. She bit her lip and beamed, tried to check her skin and hair without disturbing him.

It didn’t really work, though. He began to wake up, hands sleepily stretching over her body, lips nuzzling wherever he found skin. “Morning,” he murmured, then seemed to wake up. “I mean. Hey, Pen.” His hands stilled, disoriented and unsure: if she considered it a drunken mistake, if he did, if she was going to be all emotional about it. 

She took a deep breath, and bounced to sitting, trying to appear as if this was something she did with frequency, the tumble-into-bed cool-girl casual thing. Truthfully, she did a lot of online-date drinks, a lot of kissing boys in the clubs El dragged her too, and a fair bit of fantasizing … but Col was precisely the fourth boy she had slept with, and she had a exact count of the number of times she had had sex, as well as clear and unexceptional memories of every time (present encounter obviously excluded).

All of that , though, would almost certainly be utterly foreign to Colin Bridgerton, who had grown up at Ant and Ben’s knee, who had traveled the world and probably had a girl in every port, whose best mate was the sluttiest man in Britain — perhaps Europe. She had watched him fall in love hundreds and times and felt that he must have been with dozens of girls, probably had a veritable mental encyclopedia of tugs and touches to compare her to.  

“Oh my god, hey,” she said, trying to project a studied casualness. “Did you — did I?” She flicked her hair behind her shoulder and tried to laugh. “Well that was a fun night.” 

“Yeah.” He pushed himself up to sitting, visibly relaxing at her chill. “I — Pen, I had a really good time last night. One of the history books, eh.” 

“The fire eaters added a special touch,” she agreed, teasing lightly, combing her fingers through her hair like she was on a shampoo commercial. The goal was to try and be the girl of Col’s dreams. “My mother really knew how to spend Boris’s money at the end of the day.” 

He tugged her down. “Sure, it was definitely the fire eaters that I’m remembering.” He smirked, moving toward her with a question in his eyes. She nodded, and he started to kiss her again. 

Pen could not remember a time in her life when she had not had a crush on Colin; it was thoroughly inconvenient. The Bridgertons had moved back to London from Kent when El was three, so there might’ve been a year or two there, pre-primary. But he had always been a bit of a fantasy: unattainable, surely not as nice or funny or thoughtful as she pictured. It was always like starting directly into the sun, the image dark and blurry because it was so bright. 

But over the last few months, he had been. He’d sought out her confidence; he had bought her an expensive necklace; he had dragged her out on the dance floor last night as “Dancing On My Own” played (the music choices of Pippa and Sasha were borderline elegiac for a wedding). He’d asked her , “wanna get out of here?”, his words slurry with alcohol and abandon, and he had kissed her first, before dragging her into the old castle. He’d even taken her back to his room. All of those choices felt like delicate gold links, insignificant alone but stacking together to form something potentially beautiful.

Now she just needed not to ruin it. With a determined shove to the shoulder, she pushed him down so she could straddle him, smiling when he emitted a joyful yelp of surprise. “Penelope —” he said, admiringly. “Can I —” he fingered the cuffs of his dress shirt, which she’d put on last night in an attempt to look casually sexy. It was now hopelessly wrinkled, embarrassingly creased all around her bum.

Holding her breath, she nodded and tried not to look too eager. 

He didn’t try and bother to hide his excitement though, enthusiastically diving forward to kiss her as he unbuttoned the shirt, pausing halfway through to push it off her shoulders and pull her breasts out. “Your tits are so fucking fantastic,” he breathed, sucking on one gently as he lightly ran his fingers around the other. “Like, seriously Pen. Where have you been keeping these all these years?” He blew on her nipple, and she shivered with want. 

“I’ve always been just around the corner, Col,” she replied, losing herself a little. It was too honest, though; the opposite of Cool. He looked a bit guilty, which wouldn’t do, so she lunged forward again, kissing him, grinding on him, carding her hands through the trail of hair running from his belly button through the V of his hipbone. “Can I —” she nodded downwards — “blow you?” He’d been so polite yesterday, going down on her twice and using his fingers adroitly before they totally had sex. She’d gotten a few strokes in here and there but he’d mostly taken care of himself in the wind-up. She wanted to return the favor. 

“Oh my god, yes.” He groaned, leaning back. “Do you — is it OK if I put my hand in your hair?” 

“Sure!” she chirped. No boy had ever done that before. Though honestly, she’d only attempted a few of these. 

She managed to figure it out though: he was responsive, precise, directive, encouraging. Hesitation turned into enthusiasm, spurred on by his welcome reception. “I’m gonna —” he warned her, and she nodded, staying on his cock, redoubling her efforts until he came. Boys liked that. He wiped a bit off her chin. “You’re amazing, Pen,” he sighed contentedly. 

Boys seemed easy, all things considered.

They lay there for a bit longer, lazy kisses turning into something more intentional and then a third round of sex. He pressed kisses up her thighs, pulled her open with a joyful intentionality, used his lips first before grabbing a condom and seating her on top of him, explaining a little bashfully that he’d like to see her make her tits bounce. None of the other three boys had any opinions or preferences, or wanted to see her in a specific way, and she basked in the attention, in his delirious grunts of you’re beautiful . 

Afterwards, though, he pretty quickly gave her a kiss on the forehead and rummaged around for his phone. “It’s still Sunday brunch, y’see.” 

“I have to get to the wedding brunch too,” Penelope replied, pushing away disappointment at his tone. She expected the morning-after crowd to be mostly Eastern European; families like the Bridgertons absolutely wouldn’t dare show after the exhaustion of yesterday. She looked balefully at her canary-yellow dress from the night before, covered in butterfly and flower appliques and so stiff it practically stood on the armchair by the bed. 

Col followed her line of sight. “D’you want to … borrow a sweatshirt and shorts of mine?” He asked, displaying his trademark Bridgerton manners. He really was thoughtful; they all were. 

“Oh god. Yes, please,” she trilled. She wished immediately and secretly that he wouldn’t take them back, would somehow let her keep the Bristol hoodie as a memory of their night. Don’t get carried away , she firmly reminded herself. It wasn’t like she could ever wear it, even. She lived with his sisters; they would recognize it immediately. “But first … can I use your shower?” She was sticky, all over. 

“Right. Of course,” he gestured, typing away on his phone. She grabbed her own phone, saw a few texts from her mum, El and Fran.

Those could be dealt with later. She put her phone down and headed to the bathroom. “Want to uh, join me?” she asked, trying again for Confident Seductress. 

“Uh, I should actually —” He waved his phone around. “Seven siblings. Overbearing mother. You know.”  

“Of course.” She smiled, hoping he wasn’t getting sick of her already. Maybe she’d used too much teeth? 

She showered quickly, wrapping herself in a towel and quite wishing she’d brought the sweatshirt in with her. Col, though, had put on boxers, folded the promised sweatshirt and shorts on the bed, and headed into the tub to shower immediately after her. She got dressed quickly and attempted to fold the horrendous bridesmaid dress into … something that she could carry, albeit very awkwardly.

He popped his head out of the bathroom, jeans now on and hair wet as he brushed his teeth. “Do you need a toothbrush? I’m sorry, I should have asked.”  

“I’m, uh … do you have a second?” she asked, astonished.

“Nah, just figured — ” He waved his around. “Unless you think that’s weird, of course?” An abrupt, formal quality was taking hold of them both as the reality of the day ahead, their families, what they had done, settled in.

Was taking the toothbrush weirder than refusing? She didn’t know, but she would like to try for a goodbye kiss and clean breath was a must. “No, of course it’s not weird,” she replied. “I’d appreciate it.” 

Once she was all set, Col picked up the damn dress, which she didn’t expect, and opened the door for her. She raised an eyebrow, surprised but pleased that he followed her out and down the hall. Most of the floor was guests; he was being totally risky. 

“Pen, I …” he started, as they rounded on her door. “I just want you to know, I respect and value you as a friend. You’re a really great mate, honestly. One of … one of my best. So I … I hope you don’t think I got carried away, or anything, last night. I had a good time.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I hope you did too.” 

“Same!” she chirped. “Though perhaps we should … not mention it to your siblings?” She loathed trying to explain this to El; she couldn’t explain it to herself. Plus, she suspected Col wouldn’t want to mention it to them. 

He beamed. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he enthused, visibly relieved. “Not that I’m, er, ashamed , or anything. I would hate to give you that impression. They’re just …” 

“— a whole lot?” she finished. 

“I mean. Yeah,” he replied, a little wryly. 

She smiled back; she knew how he was feeling in their mix right now. “So, no, I don’t think we need to mention anything to them.” She moved to wrap them up. “But, thank you too. I had fun last night.” She fumbled for her key card, but got it out of her little clutch. “I’m not one for commitments, but, uh, if you’d ever want to do that again —” She opened the door, thankful her timing had worked out, “—I’d be down.” She winked at him. 

Col’s mouth dropped open as she tried to slip inside, then it curved into a confident smirk; impulsively, he leaned forward and, with more unreserved passion than he’d shown all morning, gave her an extremely thorough goodbye kiss. Her stupid dress ended up back on the floor as she put her hands anywhere she could reach.

She sank into the make-out for a solid minute or two, then pulled back. His perfect hair was totally mussed, his eyes a little glazy. With a smirk, she pushed him back outside the threshold of the door. “Safe driving back to London,” she said, lip upturned, and shut the door.

She leaned against it, with a heavy sigh. Stood there until she heard his footfalls disappear. Then, finally, exhaling, she squealed.

Ant dropped Siena off at her Soho apartment then headed over to the Aubrey Square house, feeling smug that his 10:10 arrival put him after just Mother and the two youngest. “Glad you made it back safely,” his mother said in greeting. “Did you have fun with Siena last night? Was quite kind of her to hop right onto the stage and sing — that band Portia hired was not particularly good.” 

Or maybe arriving early wasn’t such a victory. 

Luckily the rest of the family filled in quickly: first Simon and Daff, who had left right after them; then Fran and El, clutching large bottles of water, El groaning about the sunlight; finally Ben, looking far too chipper. The rooms filled up with noise as Hy, Ben and Si hooked up the PlayStation; Greg asked ANt for Latin help; Fran and Mother and Daff started to gossip about the wedding. El, clearly still a touch drunk, went over to the fridge and started to dig through it, loudly commenting on all the leftovers. “Eloise, Phoebe has prepared a brunch spread in the dining room. We’ll eat as soon as Colin arrives. Please spare your appetite.” 

“I’m sorry, Mum, we all just attended Society’s Tackiest Wedding Of The Decade. Everyone is hungover A-F. Where the fuck is Col?” El exclaimed. 

“Why don’t you ask your roommate?” Ben snorted, not looking up from FIFA. 

Fran furrowed her brow. “No, we tried texting him before we drove out. He didn’t respond.” 

“I honestly didn’t see him past the cake last night,” Daff said slowly, as if putting things together.

“Not that roommate,” Ben said, bored. “El’s other roommate.” 

“ She didn’t respond to texts either,” El said blithely, opening a carton of leftovers and eating with her fingers. Violet wrinkled her nose. 

Si, Daff, Fran and Ant all immediately put together the answer and stared at each other. “Oh fuuuuuuuck,” Simon chortled merrily, as Ant groaned, “What a fucking idiot.” 

“Eww,” Daff put her head in her hands. 

“Can you all please watch your language and insinuations?” Mother said crossly.

“What are you insinuating ?” El asked. 

“Eloise,” Fran said, with great kindness. “Col disappeared last night. Pen disappeared last night. They both weren’t answering their texts.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything!” El scoffed. 

“Soph and I walked in on him going down on her in the castle,” Ben announced, with the loudest snort imaginable. “I am insinuating nothing . It is burned into my brain.”  

“Benedict, can you please stop being vulgar!” Violet yelled. “I raised you to be discreet.” 

“You raised us to keep our acts together in public, that’s a touch different, Mama,” Fran said nicely, as El shouted, “That is fucking disgusting . I am texting her right now .” 

Col — who had always had a winning sense of timing — chose that very precise moment to walk in. “Morning, Brunchertons,” he exclaimed, wandering next to Ant and Greg. “Sorry I’m late. I’m starved, can we eat?” 

El slammed the fridge door shut with a huff. “Did you sleep with my best friend in the entire world, Penelope Jane Featherington, last night?” she demanded. 

Colin, stunned, stood there for a whole ten seconds before saying, “Uh, we agreed not to say anything?” 

“My ears ! My eyes! ” El shrieked, winding herself up and up and up. “You are a disgusting, predatory man, Colin Christopher Rokesby Bridgerton!” She smacked his arm for emphasis. 

“Ow! Everyone enjoyed themselves,” Col yelled back as Daff said, “Please do stop that, Eloise.” 

“Colin —” Ant started through gritted teeth. He put a hand on Col’s elbow. “What the fuck were you thinking, mate?” 

Col scoffed. “It’s a wedding , Ant. Are you telling me you had zero fun last night?”

“This isn’t about me, this is about you . Pen is a family friend, and El and Fran’s roommate, and she’s been in love with you since you were probably fifteen years old. Have fun, sure, but this was an incredibly irresponsible choice.” 

“She’s not in love with him, she’s not stupid,” El called.

Fran rolled her eyes. “No, she’s definitely in love with him.” 

“Listen,” Ant said, trying to keep his voice low for Colin’s sake as the girls all started to bicker about Pen’s feelings, or lack thereof, for Col. “I get it, it’s fun, it’s a wedding, you get carried away. But this could be incredibly hurtful to Pen, and you should have been a bit wiser.” 

“You’re fucked in so many ways,” Ben called, and Ant realized he probably hadn’t been that quiet.

“Who the fuck are you to lecture me about a hookup?” Col scoffed. “Considering you’ve gone from a family vacation with the Sharmas to hooking up with Siena to bringing her to a wedding in the span of three weeks..” 

“ We’re all adults,” he said. “What happened between me and Kate was difficult but we’re handling it maturely.” Behind him, Ben cackled. “You and Penelope have much different levels of emotional investment and maturity.” Though honestly, Col had always had a bit of a soft spot for Pen, and Ant had noticed them spending more time together. The damn necklace was suddenly cast in a different light. “You need to be a gentleman about this entire affair. She’s quite sensitive and a nice girl — ” He  emphasized the last word — “and she’s liable to get hurt.” 

“Well, you’re still in love with Kate and dating Siena, so maybe shove it, hmm?” Col said heatedly. “And good old ‘seize the day’ Ben here is going to let Sophie move to Italy instead of trying to have a normal relationship with the girl who’s been in our lives for, oh, ten years , so maybe — just maybe — get off your pompous I’m-the-viscount high horse and let me fucking live.” 

“Why are you bringing me into this?” Ben asked, bewildered. “And honestly, Col, Ant’s right about me — Soph and I have the exact same level of expectations. Nobody’s getting hurt.” 

“Only because you’re an idiot and she knows it,” Col lobbied back. 

“That is true,” Daff said, and Ant realized the rest of the family’s conversations had died down. “Ben, you’re an idiot. And I’m on his side about you too, Ant.” 

“Can you please not be a meddlesome snob for a day, Daff?” Ant asked, tiredly. “It’s not a good look for your brand to be so high up about class.” 

“Her hair is rather shiny,” Violet said, which was code for New Money.

“It is not class that I have an issue with, it’s the transactionality. On both your parts.” 

“We are talking about Colin, and may I remind you all , that when I get married, Mother, the woman I marry will inherit your title and be the matriarch of this family.” He tried to keep his voice under control. “Perhaps we all quit judging each other’s choices.” 

“Rich coming from you, mate,” Si pointed out amiably, and Ant glowered at him. 

“Except for Colin’s, I judge Colin’s,” El said, and Ant was forced into the unfortunate position of being On El’s Side. 

“I think I’m Team Daff,” Hy chirped in. 

“If we’re talking about being careless with people’s feelings — there’s a lot of that around here lately,” Fran observed, with a reluctant ‘Team Daff’ hand-raise.

“You should be allowed to hook up with a girl and not have to, like, be her boyfriend, so I guess I’m Team Ant,” Greg processed. 

“Who are you hooking up with?” Violet demanded. 

“Can we all eat ?” Col yelled. 

“Yes, let’s, I’m hungover and Col worked up an appetite,” El snarked. 

“ You and I are talking at the apartment,” Ant told Col. 

Col scoffed. “No we are not . I’m twenty-eight next month, you need to quit acting like we’re all children —”

“— When you all stop acting like them perhaps I could —”

“— I’ll sleep with her again if I want to! I won’t if I don’t! Everybody’s happy, everything is chill, and no decisions have been made! And fucking look in a mirror before you start your next lecture.” With that Colin stalked off.

“Dining room. Now ,” Violet ordered. Guiltily, they all traipsed in. “Ant — sit at the head of the table. Fran, Hy, sit next to him. El, Greg, Col, next to Hy. Si, Ben, Daff, next to Fran. El and Col: do not speak to one another. Daff: do not speak to Ant. Ant: Do not speak to Col. Ben: Just don’t speak.” 

“What did I do?” 

“Started shit,” Greg said helpfully. 

“Penelope, Kate, Siena, and Sophia are all off the table for conversation. Any —” her forehead pinched — “ sex acts are as well. And honestly, I cannot even think about that awful wedding yesterday any more, so El, you cannot talk about how drunk you still are, or how many guests violated human rights, or how many elephants were mistreated. And Daff, I’m sorry, but no wedding talk. It’s too close.” Violet declared, with a shudder. “Your father would be so disappointed. In all of you.” While she said it to the room, she stared directly at Ant. He stared right back. “Are we clear?” 

“What — can we talk about then?” Fran asked, curiously, as they all sat. 

“The weather. The Premier League. An amusing interaction you had with a street cat. A witty restaurant review you read in the Times . The Chelsea Flower show.” Their mother ticked off. “You get the general picture.” 

Conversation slowly restarted, nobody caring to test Vi’s terms. None of his siblings, save Hy, seemed to want to talk to him; the feeling was honestly mutual, so Ant sat and stewed after his baby sister was done filling him in on the strategy for her next football game. 

It was troubling, Col’s behavior. One would have to be blind not to know that Penelope carried a torch for him. Colin was a romantic, and a bit naive and immature — he’d never dated as casually or frequently or confidently as Ben or Ant; and he didn’t have a string of serious relationships like Fran or Daff. Even El, with the insufferable Dora, had more experience than Colin, who loved to send flowers and chocolates on a first date, but rarely went on a third. Colin had sort-of dated Marina, but he’d been traveling so much, it barely counted. Col drifted too much, following Ant or Fred or even Daff. He needed to get on sturdier ground, and this felt like a twist away from that. 

But Col had also had a point, about Kate and Siena — people were hurt, trust broken, and Ant bore responsibility. He’d just been trying to guide the poor bloke here. That was his role, after all; he’d done it to mixed results for sixteen years. More than half of his siblings’ lives, by this point. There had always been frustrations. But the complete, earned dismissiveness to his guidance was new, and it made him think. 

And, he realized, he only wanted to talk to Kate about it.

“I honestly just cannot believe your brothers —” Lady Vi sighed, tediously, as they crossed Warwick Street and headed toward Nopi. 

“Yes, they are all quite busy mucking their lives up these days,” Daff said, with a pragmatic hum.  She cast a look of frustration at Fran, next to her and chic in a vintage Lanvin minidress. It had been three days since their disaster brunch, and it had been all Violet could talk about, despite banning the topic. At least it was only Violet; Daff was grateful Whistledown hadn’t caught wind.

But right now, Daff needed her mum, needed her to focus on her. Because today, they were meeting Charlotte Queensbury for lunch to finalize details for Daff’s wedding coverage for British Vogue , and decide whether it earned a cover. A Vogue cover would cement her as an up-and-coming entrepreneur and philanthropist, not just an influencer. She was nervous, so she’d invited Fran; she didn’t know Queen Char well, so she invited her mother, who did, and who could say the right things to the formidable social gatekeeper. 

Instead, Mum needed to vent about Col and Ant and Ben. Again. 

“I am just not sure how I have six adult children, and all my daughters are thoughtful, hardworking, and responsible —”

“— El missed a torts final because she overslept after a rave,” Daff cut in. “This was last month, do you remember?” 

“— And my sons just sleep around , avoid responsibility at every turn, and positively embarrass this family,” Violet sighed, wrapping an arm around each of them. “You know, I hate to say things happen because your father died, but if Edmund were alive, none of this would happen.” 

“Yes, the worst thing about Dad not being here is that our brothers break the hearts of women who are above their pay grade anyways. Not that Daff doesn’t get to be walked down the aisle by him,” Fran said, in a surprisingly sharp tone for her.

Violet startled, dropping the pair of them. “Oh, Daphne, I didn’t mean to imply —”

“— It’s fine, Mama,” Daff returned with a smile. She mouthed thank you to Fran. She changed the subject. “How are El and Penelope?” 

“Not speaking. Bit awkward at breakfast.” Fran shrugged. “Are you all set for this, Daff?” 

“I’m good,” she smiled, and squeezed her mum’s hand. “Let’s impress the shit out of Queen Char.” 

Queen Char was intentionally unmissable, in the center of Nopi’s dining room. Today her hair was a precisely square, three-inch Afro — she always styled it in the shape of a crown, a quiet but inescapable reminder of the role she played within Society. She wore a Halpern cutout midi-dress, Manolo blue velvet pumps, and jewelry so expensive that even Daff could not identify it. She was a formidable, intelligent woman; her publishing empire included Vogue, Tatler, and Town and Country . She determined and defined society, fashion, and culture in London and probably for all of Europe. Lives had been ruined at similar lunches for decades.

Daff straightened her Simone Rocha frock, and gave herself a single, determined  nod. 

“Charlotte, how wonderful to see you,” Violet said, suddenly a perfect London society maven. Their maternal grandfather, a Major in the Army turned businessman, had run a series of exclusive clubs in London in the 70s and 80s, and Mama and Queen Char had known each other since Mama was fourteen and Char nineteen. “It’s been too long.” 

“Always,” Charlotte said, her voice a cool coo. She kissed Mum on both cheeks. “Daphne, you look wonderful. And my, Francesca, you’ve grown up so quickly. What are you up to these days?” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Francesca smiled. “I’ve got a compositional and playwriting fellowship this year. At the National Theatre.”  

“Following your mama, brother and sister into the arts,” Charlotte summarized, approvingly. “Bridgertons have always been such cultural mainstays.” 

“It’s been so wonderful to have so many children who appreciate and create art,” Violet said warmly. 

“Have enough children and one must,” Charlotte replied, a slight bite in her words. Charlotte had been married twice, but divorced both husbands by the time she turned forty, and never had children. Now, her romantic life was much speculated about, but utterly on lock. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve invited Agatha as well. She loves the cardamom labneh.” 

Daff smiled. Fantastic. Simon’s godmother and Queen Char went back even further than Mama and Queen Char did, and had a bit of a swirl of a relationship that Daff honestly could not decode — but Lady Danbury loved Daff. The cover was hers, she could feel it. 

They ordered the best bottle of rose and a smattering of hors d'oeuvres. Lady Danbury, in a smart, military-style Chanel suit, showed up shortly after the wine arrived. 

“My darling friends,” she said to announce her presence. “Daff, do fill us in on the wedding.” 

“Yes. We are nearly done, final touches. My vision is a timeless, countryside wedding, but through a lens of modernity befitting our relationship. Simon and I will be the first mixed-race  hereditary duke and duchess. I’m mindful of the responsibility of being the first, so that we’re not the last. My ceremony dress will be McQueen, and my reception dress is Alonuku. I see this wedding as the foundation of a dynamic, thoughtful partnership — one that we hope can be used to support good causes and benefit communities. We don’t believe in sitting smugly on our resources.. For instance, once we’re married, we’ll be announcing that we’ll be turning his ancestral home into a school and community center for children who have experienced trauma.” 

“Wonderful,” Lady Danbury said approvingly. 

“Thank you.” Daff smiled. “We’ve both experienced profound loss, and we want to help people heal. There’s just so much hurt.” 

“Wonderful,” Queen Char said, but her tone was brisk. “This is all a good angle, but save it for the cover interview.” 

She tried to contain her excitement. “You mean …” 

“Yes, yes, of course. You’re an influencer and an entrepreneur who’s been a fixture at fashion shows for five years, dated a prince, and is now marrying the handsomest man in Europe. Of course you have the cover,” Queen Char said, bored at the obviousness of her enthusiasm. “September, I think. The angle will be forging a modern Britain. You will wear bridal-adjacent Valentino.You must talk about balancing a public relationship with a private life, share at least one story of racism, one about your dead father and many siblings, make a reference to Prince Freddie, and reflect on your time as an intensive ballet student. Perhaps what that taught you about discipline, that would be relatable. Should that all be acceptable, the cover is yours.” 

Daff’s heart positively soared . “Miss Queensbury, this is such a huge honor and I can’t —”

“You can try but you are right, you cannot thank me enough,” Queen Char replied. 

“Charlotte does, however, have a favor,” Lady Danbury said.

Violet cocked an eyebrow. “Whatever is it, Charlotte?” 

“Have you seen the Whistledown Instagram?”

“But of course,” Daff answered. 

“I want her,” Charlotte said baldly. “She’s witty, she’s smart, she’s observant. I want to give her — without unmasking her — a column in Tatler .” 

“How does this involve us?” Mum asked.

Queen Char raised an eyebrow. “For better or for worse, your lot appears in her pages with regularity. You are always at the same party. Just yesterday she covered the activist one aggravating the Turkish Prime MInister. Surely you must have an inkling?” 

“Our sister Eloise is mad about finding her,” Fran offered. “She may know? But honestly, it’s just gossip. It doesn’t impact our lives.” 

“Of course, we follow it,” Daff said, trying to smooth over Fran’s unintentional slight. “But unfortunately no, we do not know who she is.” 

“Well,” Queen Char said. “Do give it some thought.” There was a freighted threat to the casual statement. 

Daff subtly texted Simon, who worked around the corner; once the business portion of the lunch wrapped he swung by to say hello and eat dessert. It had been a strategic reinforcement, but Daff was grateful for his quiet, steady presence. 

After their goodbyes to Queen Char and Lady Danbury, she expected Simon to head back to the office, but instead he took her elbow to guide her on a walk. “I think the cover will be lovely,” she chattered. “And are you OK if I mention some of the racism we faced?”She didn’t want to say anything that he wasn’t OK sharing. 

“People should know that arseholes exist.” He shrugged. “Anyways — sit on this bench. I have A Thing.” 

“A Thing!” she exclaimed, delighted. “You never have things.” He was so constant, now. “This is delightful. Did you … rob a bank?” she teased.

“No,” he said, smiling. “Anyways.” He looked nervous! She was so excited for whatever this was, for him for having something he cared about so much. “I’ve been thinking — I like my job fine. But what I love is making deals. Finding the new thing, the negotiation.” Simon had worked in tech VC for as long as they’d been together, and she’d heard him talk about his work five times, tops.

“You’re not joining Bridgerton Group, are you?” Fuck, that would be awful. 

“What? Christ, no. But … you know, football was such a huge part of my life, when I got injured, I just bottled it away. But I was talking to some of the boys, and … what would you think if I became an agent?” 

“Like for footballers?” she asked, piecing it together. Simon had so many connections, had a Stanford MBA — she loved this for him. 

“Or for any sport, but probably start there. Represent them, make sure they get fair contracts, find new opportunities, keep their heads on straight if they’re young, get them endorsements so they’re taken care of when they’re done. I know the sports, I have the connections, some of the Richmond blokes said they’d be interested in signing. I know it’s not very duke-y —”

“If you love it, I think it’s fantastic.” She leaned forward to kiss him deeply. “I think you’d be a perfect mentor, too.” Whatever a young, famous athlete was going through, Simon had been through: injury, tabloid interest, loss, fame. She’d become confident, assured in herself, because he had seen how strong she was even before she did. He’d be so good at this.

“Good,” he said, looking visibly relieved. It was charming, how nervous he was. “I mean, I hoped you’d say this. But I wanted to tell you first.” 

She kissed him, deeply. “No, I love this.What brought this on?” 

“You know, the wedding’s soon, we’re selling Clyvedon, you’ve got the plans for the charity … ” He shrugged. “You make me a little braver, and this felt like the right choice.” 

“It is,” she replied, running a thumb over his cheekbone and kissing him again. “Fuck, fuck this wedding, I cannot wait to be married to you.” 

And so, Daphne Bridgerton, Vogue’ s newly minted September cover star, spent ten minutes on a glorious Tuesday afternoon making out on a park bench with her fiance.

“These numbers look great, Bridge,” Harry Mailman, Bridgerton Group’s CEO, said as he and Ant exited a quarterlies meeting on Thursday. “Keep it up and the Board should have no hesitations come September.” 

“Thank you sir,” Ant said, with a responsible nod. “It’s been a wild first half but we’re on track and I think our investments in diversified energy are paying off.” 

“Right-o,” Harry agreed. “You tell your mother hello now, son.” 

“Yes sir.” Ant gave a nod and a smile to end the conversation, detoured into his office and took a seat at the cool glass desk. Bridgerton Group owned the Shard, and his office had a perfect, sixtieth-floor view of the Tower Bridge, currently gleaming golden under the setting sun. 

He had barely entered his laptop password, though, when he heard a knock. “Uh. Heya. Can I come in?” 

He cocked his head disapprovingly at his reprobate younger brother. “Colin. Sure.” 

“I, uh, wanted to apologize. For Sunday,” Colin said without preamble, hanging against the glass door of the office. He wore jeans, a sweater, and a jacket — slightly annoying, as they’d gone over the BG dress code many times. “Saturday was, a lot, and I wasn’t completely sure where my head was and — I took it out on you. I mean, everything I said about you was true, and I stand by it, but it was also rude.” 

Ant raised an eyebrow. “This is an apology?” 

“A mediocre one, but yeah,” Col said sheepishly.

He removed his reading glasses. He hated that he was old enough for them. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I was harsh. Just. You do know that Penelope is … quite fond of you? And, she’s young, Colin.” 

“She’s El’s age.” 

“El is young, and when was the last time Penelope had a boyfriend?” Ant replied. “Do … do you care for her?”

Col dug a toe in the carpet. “She’s a friend, of course. A real friend, not like you and Kate. Anyways. This isn’t why I came in here.” 

“Oh? Are you … working today?”

“Uh. Trying.” Col blushed. “I actually … I have a proposition for you. I think it could be a new, fantastic line of revenue for Bridgerton Group.” 

“Oh?” He had been expecting Col to pitch something since he came back last year, tacky nightclubs honestly. But this was the first gambit.

“Yeah. I have a deck. Could I … could I find some time to show it to you?” 

Ant appraised his brother, who looked nervous, but steady. “Find some time with Cathy. Forty-five minutes on a workday. Be prepared to answer questions about your financial model.” 

“Got it.” Colin beamed. “You going home? Or to Siena’s?” 

“She’s in Reykjavik today —” Opening a new radio station — “but I’m going to Bridgerton House to help Greg with his Latin.” He hadn’t finished on Sunday after the Pen-Col situation hit the fan. “In fact,” he said, snapping his laptop case shut, “I should be going soon. Do you want to come? I’m sure there’s something delicious for dinner.” 

He shook his head. “Thanks but no thanks. Meeting Fred, Sterling, and Edwina for dinner.”

“Sharma?” he asked sharply, an ache springing up in his chest.

“She’s in town for Wimbledon tune-ups,” Col said. Ant knew the Queen Eleanor Cup was starting Sunday at the club; Wimbledon the week after. “Want me to ask after Kate?" He cracked.

"Absolutely not," he said, more sharply than he intended.

Col raised an eyebrow. "Did you talk to her at the wedding at all?” 

“No," he lied. "Anways, I appreciate the offer, but thank you.” He busied himself with the papers on his desk. “Does … Fred knows that Kate will have him murdered if he messes with Edwina’s head before Wimbledon, yes?” 

Col nodded. “He’s been warned. Multiple times.” He turned to exit. “I’ll tell Edwina to tell Kate hey for you.” 

“No you shan’t!” he yelled, but Col was already gone. 

He sat back, wondering if Kate knew what Edwina was up to, and sighed. 

The house was quiet as he let himself in, and wandered toward the back. Greg, Hy, and his mother were sitting on the massive couch, laughing at something happening on The Big British Baking Tent , eating takeaway for dinner. The TV was hung below his mother’s favorite piece of art: a photo of all nine of them, split into a triptych; the oldest boys in one panel, Violet with the youngest two in the middle; the older girls in the third. Everyone wore jeans or casual dresses; the print was in grey-and-black. 

Every time Ant saw it, it made him smile. But looking at the laidback picture, Ant was struck, not for the first time, what different upbringings he and his youngest siblings had — his was aristo while theirs simply upmarket: when he was growing up, the family photo was a portrait painted with the oldest four children in Aubrey Hall, the boys in short pants. His dinner before a Latin study session would have been in a suit and tie in the Eton cafeteria. 

But after Edmund died, Violet couldn’t bear for them all to board. Ben finished at Eton but Col had transferred to Westminster for Fourth; Daff had gone there as well after she decided to quit studying ballet. Greg was there now, and Fran and El had gone to St. Pauls while Hy was at City of London. Ben and Ant had gone to Oxford without thinking there were any other choices; only Eloise, of the younger six, had made that decision. Hell, Hy could barely ride a horse. 

He wouldn’t trade, though, not if the trade was his years with Edmund.

“Ant!” Hy shrieked. “You made it!” 

“We have plenty of Nando’s if you want.” His mother smiled. “Phoebe’s off visiting her sister in Norfolk this week.” 

“Would love some.” He returned the smile as he sat down. 

“How’s Siena?” his mother asked, passing him a plate of food. The plate probably cost six hundred pounds, the sandwich six. 

Her effort surprised him, but he appreciated it. “Good.” He took a bite out of the sandwich, swallowing quickly. “Traveling for work at the moment.” 

“Ant, would you eat a dessert called a clanger ?” Hy asked. 

“It looks disgusting,” Greg said. “Or maybe that’s their interpretation.” 

“I’d take a bite and give it to Col,” he replied, tickling Hy.

His mother stood. “Forty years out of school and Latin still stresses me out, so I shall be upstairs. Hy, come, don’t distract.” Greg’s school year was nearly done, but he was behind in Latin. Ant and Violet had hired a tutor to support, but Greg said the tutor knew nothing. 

“Can I stay? I’ll just read.” 

“No distractions, Greg is taking his A-levels next year.” 

“I won’t, he needs all the help he can get.” In retaliation, Greg threw a pencil at her.

“No second chances,” Ant warned her. “But yes, stay.”  

Ant honestly wasn’t sure he was much help with the tutor’s homework, honestly; his Latin had always been mediocre and fifteen years had jumbled his ability to conjugate. He wished, improbably, that he could turn to Kate — with her 1st class joint honors in Classics and Politics, and then her American law degree, she was eminently more qualified than him. She’d know the answers, make fun of him for his pronunciations, have far more patience when Greg’s fingers wandered back to his phone. 

But Kate wasn’t here, wouldn’t be here. It was, as always, on him. 

Greg flipped his phone over to glance at a message, then quickly flipped it back, screen down. “This is the fourth time you’ve checked your messages,” Ant said, irritated. “Do you want to just answer your friend?” 

“No, because it’s Clementine Shepherd, and he’s trying to be cool,” Hy answered, not looking up from her book.

“Who?”

Greg shrugged. “Just a girl at school.” 

He felt a headache coming on. “Do you … like her?” 

“She’s alright.” 

“He had sex with her and now he’s playing it cool,” Hy divulged. Greg immediately threw a pillow and she said, defiantly, “You told Mom that I went to Caitlin Fitzgerald’s party.” 

“I will murder you,” he said, trying to jump on her. Ant wrestled him back, put his hands on Greg’s shoulder. 

“Well, Greg, I hope you’re being responsible.” He was completely formal, and utterly out of his depth. He’d never had this talk with Colin or any of the girls, thank fuck, and now he wondered who’d talked to Col. Absconding that duty was just another way he’d failed. 

Greg shook Ant’s hands off, but made no further moves to murder Hyacinth. “You all spend half of Sunday brunch discussing who you slept with that week, I know how to use a condom,” Greg said, irritated and a little embarrassed. Ant winced. They kind of deserved that. 

“Why aren’t you texting her back, though? She’s messaged you several times.” 

He shrugged. “You have to play it cool. She needs to learn that I just won’t respond whenever she texts.” 

Jesus Christ. Suddenly, the lesson wasn’t about Latin verbs. He scratched at his temple and sighed, trying to figure out how to handle this better than the Col-Pen situation. “Greg, it sounds like you like her, and she likes you. Relationships are hard enough without playing games. You should respect her, one way you show that is you text her back.” 

“He says she’s emotional,” Hy added.

“I think you’re a busybody,” Greg replied, annoyed. 

Ant cocked an ear. “What makes her emotional?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “She’s hot, she’s cold, she cries when she gets a bad grade, she cries at old movies.” 

“How does that all make you feel?” 

“It’s a lot.” Greg’s voice was guarded. “And, I’m playing the field.” The like you went unsaid, but was loud and clear. 

He sighed. He’d really been a shit role model when his brothers needed it. Greg seemed to be shaping up to have the worst habits of him, Ben, and Col, which would be an utter trainwreck. “And do you think not texting her is going to make her less emotional?”

He was quiet. “Probably not.” 

“Just text her. Be direct.” Ant nudged the phone toward him. 

Greg picked it up, typed a message briefly. “Did, uh, Dad ever tell you anything? About girls?” 

Ant snorted. “Truthfully I was a little girl-mad when I was in Fourth and Fifth form. So lots of things.” 

“Like what?” 

He smiled, thinking back twenty years. “He told me that I should always be honest with my feelings. Even if they were hard. With myself, but also with the other person.” It had been a tough lesson then, and it felt somehow tough now. 

“Is that why you dumped Kate?” Hy asked. She had loved Kate at Aubrey Hall; honestly, they both had. “You didn’t love her?” 

“And got back with Siena?” Greg added. “Because you love her?”

“I — eventually, Greg, stuff gets a little more complicated than just, she’s hot and cold in texts. Or your feelings, even. It’s about whether you have the same goals in life.” He swallowed. “It’s not good or bad, it’s just … what being an adult is like, sometimes.” He needed to leave Kate alone, and he needed to make his family understand that, so that they would stop torturing him with good intentions. “Things like, what job you want, where you want to live, do you want kids, those matter more.” He tapped a pencil against the Latin book. “Kids are a big one, when it comes down to it.” 

“Are you going to have kids with Siena, then?” Greg asked.

“I’d like kids, yeah. Do you think I’d do an OK job?” 

“ Yes. A great one,” Hy said, loyally and immediately. The ferocity surprised him, just a bit. “I’ll babysit.”

He ruffled her hair. “I appreciate that.” 

Greg was quiet. “What else did Dad say? About girls?” 

“Well. He was a bit romantic, especially about things like flowers — got Mum some every week. Hyacinths were his favorite.” He nudged his sister’s shoulder. “That’s where Col gets it. And he was a big believer in telling the people that he loved that he loved them, every day.” 

“Do you still miss him?” 

“Almost every day,” he said honestly. “I’m not sad every day now, of course. The memories are happy. But do I wish I could show him things, ask him things.” Like right now, he wanted Ed to handle Greg; he wanted Ed to tell him whether restarting things with Siena was the right call; he wanted Ed to assure him the board vote was his. “That’s almost every day.” 

Hy was quiet. “Since we didn’t know him —” she started — “do we get to miss him?” 

“Of course you do,” he said. “You don’t need to earn missing someone. Grief … that’s just the price you pay because you love them. You don’t stop loving someone when they’re gone. It just changes, and becomes grief. If either of you ever want to ask him something — like what you should text a girl back — that means you love him, but he’s not here, so it’s grief. So it’s not the same, but it’s still there.” 

He realized that, despite feeling like all his siblings should know his grief, they rarely talked about grieving . They talked about Edmund plenty, painted a vivid picture: his jokes and bad fashion sense and silly hobbies. But they talked about his absence rarely; sixteen years on, the loss, not the man himself, was the defining feature in their family. Their stiff upper lips always prevented them from forming words on the topic. 

Ant had assumed there was some unspoken comfort and commonality in how they grieved Edmund  … but they all lost him at different ages, and would have needed him at different times. And they’d all processed the loss differently — he and Ben avoiding commitments in different ways, Daff finding boyfriends to fix, El rebelling reflexively.

So of course Greg and Hy wondered if they were entitled to grief. There was no model for them to talk about what he meant to them; just stories they didn’t know.

Ant resolved to be a tiny bit better. 

Wrapping an arm around each of them, he said, “Listen, anytime you have questions like this, or miss him at something like a football game or Sunday brunch, let me know. And I’ll tell you more about the times I miss him, too. Deal?” They both nodded. “And you and I, Greg, need to get lunch soon. I won’t have you acting like this with Clementine or any other girl, so you can ask questions without someone —” He cut eyes at Hyacinth, and she giggled — “there.” 

“Really?” 

“Really. We’re Bridgertons. We stick together,” he confirmed. “Now. Latin!”

He stayed until they both figured out the damn verb tenses, and found a Saturday that worked for Greg for lunch. Got Hy up to bed and gave his mother a polite peck goodbye. 

He pulled out his phone on the way out: Flying back. Miss you! Dinner tomorrow?From Siena. 

Edmund’s reminder in his ear, he texted back Sounds great. Maybe takeaway? Am positively beat by this week. Fly safe. 

Easy enough, all true.

He flipped over to Contacts and hovered over Kate ‘The Legend’ Sharma. He opened the chat. Their last messages were updates from the PSG game he took her dad to. 

He thought about texting her Latin questions, giving her the opportunity to needle him a bit with her superior knowledge. Or a Col-Pen update — she’d find that delightful and agree with him that it was a terrible idea. Or perhaps he could just confirm that she knew Edwina was having dinner with Freddie again, check in on how she felt about it. Check after her father, see if she caught a break from work, how the river was. Ordinary things. 

But he cared for her, and so he had to miss her. 

He closed the chat, instead. 

Chapter Text

“We accept the love we think we deserve.”— The Perks of Being a Wallflower 

***

Behind her Ray-Bans, Kate took in the scene at Centre Court: the thousands of spectators limply waving Union Jacks in the still summer air. Little girls with posters of Edwina, and large tennis balls for her to sign. Umps and ball kids trying to stay cool in their khakis. And a row of long-lens cameras, lined up like soldiers, ready to capture Edwina’s every stroke, serve, struggle. 

Last year, as a wildcard, Edwina’s first game had been even before the tournament technically started. It had been on Court 17, with barely fifty spectators. It was such a blip — such an honor-to-be-chosen thing — that Kate, thick in the midst of her work with the U.N., hadn’t made the game. It wasn’t even on cable, just streamed; Appa had been in town for appointments, and Comcast had kicked them off the laptop feed twice.  

What a difference a year makes , Kate thought, wiping sweaty palms on her hot-pink Derek Lam wrap dress. 

Appa hadn’t been feeling well — a fatiguing new treatment — so he and Mum stayed home. In their place, Kate had invited Sophie and Tom to use Edwina’s players’ box tickets. Sophie had taken a break from packing, and looked chic as always in a Isabel Morant floral-print dress. Tom cleaned up nicely in a straw hat, light-blue shirt, and linen pants. Her “everyone looks hotter watching tennis” theory still held; she found herself glancing at Tom’s forearms, flexed under his rolled cuffs, every so often. 

He caught her doing that, and grinned. “I could get used to this view,” he flirted. He had a plate of strawberries and cream in front of him, and held out one temptingly. 

She preened, then laughed, grabbing the strawberry from his fingers. It had been a little over a week since Pippa Featherington’s awful wedding — and they had all been subjected to the #TurkishAirPartner social-media snaps from her honeymoon since  — and she continued to like Dorset. He shared stories about her father as a teacher and doctor, and didn’t press her for details about his current situation in return. He was specific and clear about his level of interest in her, as well as his plans to go back to Haiti at the end of the summer, and it was easy to return that transparency honestly. They had met up at one event, attended a dinner party, and gotten brunch once. It had settled into something fond and perfectly calibrated and familiar, something that allowed her to breathe. 

If she could stay focused solely on the handsome man in front of her, she was absolutely fine. 

She sighed, and flexed out her fingers — her knuckles white from clenching, again. On the court, Edwina cut a cranky, distracted figure, dancing her feet around the baseline as she rolled her neck. She had done well in the tuneups, making it to the Round of 16 at Manchester and then the quarterfinals at the Queen’s Cup. 

But the pressure had only mounted as Wimbledon loomed, and Edwina’d become short-tempered and sarcastic. This morning, the tantrum was over the infamous Wimbledon dress code,of all things: teals and turquoise were her lucky colors, and now the All England Club’s rules limited her to just turquoise-trimmed socks. Adidas had designed her seven bright-white custom dresses for the entire tournament, and she wore one of Kate’s favorites — a fit-and-flare minidress with different textures of fabric stitched together on the bias — but she was still irritated, and off, and itchy. 

Kate empathized; she was practically dizzy with adrenaline and anxiety herself. Edwina’s face was on every mag at the Tube station this morning, on four channels when watching TV last night, on every billboard on the A5. She’d had interviews nonstop, and forty cameras watching her warm-ups, and barely had time to eat or drink water. Kate was trying to help, to keep Edwina calm, to maintain focus and simply power through, eliminate any uncertainties or extranalities. She knew she needed to be calm to keep Edwina calm,but it took everything she had to keep it together. 

Not that it mattered; everything Kate suggested was simply wrong, per Edwina. Last week, in the middle of the Queen’s Cup, Eddie had gone out drinking with Freddie, Michael Sterling, and Colin Bridgerton instead of resting, and yelled at Kate when she’d suggested that she stay back. 

She’d lost the next day. Her first words to Kate had been, “Don’t you dare say anything about last night.”  

There was a wild murmur just behind Kate and to the right, and she wrenched herself out of her memories, pulling her eyes from Edwina’s warm-ups to see the London club circuit’s Three Musketeers nudging their way into the row behind her, as if on cue. Michael — still easily the most objectively handsome human she’d ever seen up close, between his curling dark hair and perfect cheekbones and glorious eyebrows — wandered in first, smiling at all the overly tanned tennis-playing cougars. Then came Col, affable and smirking in white pants rolled to his ankles and a salmon button-down. Finally Freddie, in large sunglasses and a larger hat but nevertheless instantly recognizable. 

“Afternoon.” Col nodded, sliding into the seats directly behind them. “Sophie. Kate. Uh, jolly good to see you both.” He tugged his jacket a bit self-consciously. She tried to give him a smile; Col always seemed ever so slightly out of his depth around her. It was a kindness. But this was her first time seeing any of them since Ant begged her for space, and she felt both unsure and emotional.  

Not Soph, though. “Just because we are no longer involved with your brothers doesn’t mean we don’t like you, Col.” Deeply entertained, she cheers-ed with her Pimms’ cup. 

He immediately relaxed, but still quipped. “I mean, I am the best of the three of us. You all know —”

“Michael Sterling,” the newcomer said as he slid in. His accent was pure salted caramel, deep and lightly French and somehow better than in his movies. He had a bit of a track record playing “villains with hearts of gold” and she absolutely understood why. “Pleased to meet you, officially. You must be Kate — Edwina speaks so fondly of you.” Kate raised a skeptical eyebrow at the incredibly handsome movie star now three feet from her. If he had pores, she would be close enough to count them. 

Sophie rolled her eyes at Kate’s standoffishness, and smiled warmly to counter. “She is, and she’s deeply stressed about this match, so she’s prickly. Or pricklier than usual. I’m Sophie Bui Boateng. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. Also, that’s Tom. Over there.” Tom gave a slight bro-wave to Michael, and a nod to Col and Fred. “He has no influence over her poor behavior, either.”

Kate couldn’t pay attention to Sophie’s mindless flirting, though. Staring at Freddie — who was happily winking at the cougars, giving them his grandmother's delicate wave — she hissed, “ What are you doing here?” 

“Relax, Sharma,” he drawled. Michael’s eyes crinkled, first in surprise, then amusdement, as he took in the dynamic. “I’m in a disguise!” Freddie tipped his hat brim.

“You are the fourth in line to the throne,” she retorted. “You cannot disguise that.” 

He shrugged. “I wanted to, you know. Support Edwina.” 

“By making this an even bigger spectacle?” Kate raised an eyebrow. She had only interacted with Freddie a whole of two times, but she’d heard plenty from Daff, Ant, even Nick and Bex. He was all extremes: charming and cold, brash and sensitive, selfish and generous. Lost and also playing a predestined, almost Shakespearean role in his family and the media. 

There was an alluring, alive charisma to Freddie, and she understood what drew Edwina, so young and naive, in. Daff did say that military service had straightened him out a bit. But he had an edge, and unseen whirlpools that Kate could just sense. He could drag her baby sister in, ruin her career, and protecting that was Kate’s job. “She has the pressure of the entire country behind her right now, and you think it is cool and supportive to just show up and add to that?” 

“I didn’t think —”

“Clearly.” Kate turned around with a flounce. 

Fred flung himself back in his seat, manspreading in the process. “She asked me to come, you know. All of us, last week,” he replied, petulantly. “You’re not the only one she wants here.” 

The warmups ended, Edwina and her opponent quickly talking to the umps and tapping racquets before heading to the baseline. Between her points from last year and her strong showing at the French, Edwina was currently eighth in the world. Her opponent was a 27-year-old Chinese woman, ranked 63rd. The Club had given Edwina an intentionally easy draw through the first few rounds, eager to hold onto its star. Kate hoped it would be enough. 

But from the first serve and grunt, Kate knew Edwina was off, fatally so. “Christ, I can’t look,” she muttered as soon as the first game was done.

Tom gave her a strange look. “It’s just one point. She’s got plenty of time.”

“No.” Kate shook her head. “She’s lost. The whole thing. She’s not recovering.” 

“Oh,” he said, unsure how to respond. “I mean, maybe, but it’s just one match. No matter what, she’ll get through it.”

“It’s Wimbledon. And she’s the champion,” Kate countered grimly. “It’s not something she’ll just get through.”

The match devolved with quick, brutal efficiency; the crowd first supportive but then upset for Edwina as they watched the reigning champion absolutely collapse. Their section, which started out the loudest, was completely quiet for the last half. In the end, it was 6-1, 6-2. Edwina barely looked like her feet were moving in the final game. When it was over, she sat in her chair for a very, very long time. 

“What does she need?” Freddie asked, after a beat.

Kate exhaled, deeply. “Me. I need to go talk to her.” She stood.

“Do you need —” Soph asked.

“— No, I’m good,” she said, winding her ways to the stairs and flashing her pass to enter the bowels of the stadium. 

Edwina’s coach saw her and waved her in. “She has to get to the press room, and soon,” he reminded Kate. As if she didn’t know. 

She remembered the Centre Court Members’ Dressing Room from last year’s final — it was basically a private spa, with velvet couches and silver trays of food and towels so plush Kate considered swiping one. Edwina’s competitor, since she wasn’t top-16, was elsewhere in the complex. Kate was grateful, it meant Eddie was totally alone right now. She followed the sounds of the hitching sobs until she found her sister. 

“Bon —” 

“— Don’t, didi.” Eddie gulped through her tears. “Just don’t … say … anything.” 

She stood quietly in front of Edwina, letting her have this moment. “You played very well,” she said, though she did not. “And all under pressure, bon — the media, the hype, it’s been more than anyone expected. You dealt with it so gracefully.”

“Quick trying to make this better,” Edwina hissed. “God, just quit being so fucking controlled . This sucks, didi! All year, I’ve been so anxious, so stressed, about not living up to this one thing.  I kept thinking, was this a fluke? Did I deserve to win? It was all any reporter would ask me about. All I could think about at night.” 

“—Of course you did, you worked so hard—”

“—And like that—” She snapped her fingers. “It’s lost. It’s lost and I’m over.” 

“It’s not over,” Kate pushed back. “You just got in your head, eh? That’s OK. We’ll … we’ll work more with the mental prep coach, you can practice some baseline drills, nothing is done bon—”

“Oh my god, just shut up ,” Edwina shrieked, gulping back tears. “Let it just suck for thirty minutes. Not everything needs fixed, Kate, not everything needs you to swoop in and save things.” 

“Listen, bon, I get it, you’re upset. I’m upset too! I think we just —” 

“ No . This is mine. My failure. Quit pinning your happiness on me and how I’m doing.” There was a wild, guilty, almost sick look on Edwina’s face, like she had been holding that thought in for a while and simply had to vomit it out. 

“What?” Kate asked. She felt rooted to the spot and, simultaneously, like her world had flipped upside down. 

“You heard what I said.” Edwina struggled to get her breathing and sobbing under control. “This sucks. This is devastating. All I need is for you to say that this sucks and it’s devastating and save the pep talks for tomorrow. But no, you’re Kate and you have to rush in and fix everyone else’s problems.” 

“Eddie, I am not here to fix your problems — I’m just here to be supportive.” 

“— You’re here to avoid your own problems by stressing about mine. And I can’t do it anymore, Kate. I can’t be your project. I’m going to go do this press conference, and then drink a ton, and then practice tomorrow, and then get to Newport for the next tournament so I can earn my points back.” She wiped her face, hard. “Fuck!” 

“You are not my project, you’re my sister. Yes, I have … made sacrifices —”

“—That I didn’t ask you to make!” she shrieked. “This is my loss. I am the one that failed, that wasn’t good enough! I need to get back in the game. I have spent all year worrying that this terrible thing will happen, and it did, so now it’s on me to build myself back. Me . It’s going to be hard and I can’t do it, I cannot , if I’m also dragging your hopes and dreams with me too.” She grabbed her water bottle, and took a large drink.

Kate froze, felt her insides both drop and solidify. “I have always taken care of you, Eddie, of Mum, of Appa. I have done it gladly , I would do it again —”

“— Now I have about two minutes to fix my face before I have to go talk to the reporters and insist that I’m not a one-Slam wonder. Can you give me the room, please?”  

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Kate nodded. “I’ll leave you be, then,” she finally said, the words difficult to get out around the marble-sized lump in her throat. Her heel-clicks felt so loud in the empty space. 

She felt disoriented, borderline overwhelmed, but as soon as she stepped out, Tom, Sophie, Colin, Michael, Freddie, and Freddie’s PPOs were waiting just outside. “Should we wait?” Soph asked. “How’s she doing?”

“Fine, all things considered,” Kate said. She blinked several times, trying to clear her head. “She’s going to do the press conference. I … am going to go.” She wasn’t sure where.

“Are you OK?” Col blurted out. 

“Of course,” she responded, with a tight smile. 

“Let’s grab dinner,” Sophie suggested, sensing something was off but not sure what. “Tom, you pick a place. Do you all want to come?” 

“I’ll stick around if that’s alright,” Freddie said.

“I’ll, uh, stay with him,” Col said, with a bit of a formal nod. He still seemed a bit nervous around her. 

Kate shot him a watery smile. “Don’t do anything crazy; she’s processing a lot emotionally.” She winced after giving the warning. Edwina would probably hate her for saying that. She wasn’t even sure why she did.

Forty-five minutes later, she, Tom, Sophie, and Michael had poured themselves into a back booth at White’s. Sophie, still very aware something was up, had gone to get the drinks, dragging Tom with her. 

“You alright?” Michael asked, as she stared off. “You’ve been quiet since we left South West.” 

She studied Michael Sterling, really, for the first time. She was attracted — no, really, compelled — by him, potentially the least-surprising fact ever, given that he was one of the Fifty Most Beautiful people in the world. He was handsome, sexual and magnetic, sure, but his pull went beyond that. There was something sure, and still, about him, a fluidity and depth and sense that every action and thought and movement was completely intentional. He seemed completely grounded in himself, incapable of being dragged along by the force of Freddie’s charm and money and personality, or whatever bullshit Hollywood or European society might throw at him. He had come today because — for whatever reason — he chose to be.

Honestly, it reminded her quite a bit of Ant: His constancy, his clarity, his command of a room and his company and family and goals. The alive, rueful way he got when he was at his most content — deeply connected to his people and his surroundings, completely seductive and alluring and just setting the tone for everyone around him. There was something warmer and less rigid to Michael — more empathetic, less coolly arrogant — but his demeanor was overall so close to Ant’s. It made her breath catch. She still missed him, much as she tried not to. It had been almost a month since Paris. 

She realized right then that she could never sleep with Michael. 

“You ever just … spend all your time trying to do the right thing and it’s completely the wrong thing?” she asked, philosophically. 

“Not in a while,” he answered truthfully. “But you should have seen some of my earlier films.” 

“Did you do porn back in France?” she said, faux-seriously. 

He laughed. “Is this about your sister?” 

“Yes. And other things.” 

“Ah. Trouble in paradise?” He tilted his head toward Tom. 

“Oh god, no. We don’t know each other well enough for trouble or paradise.” She laughed. “Edwina. My family. A past … fling. Work and all the work I’ve missed because of Edwina and my family and the fling. I have the next two weeks off for her matches and now … nothing.” She sighed. “I should go back into the office.” God only knew how far behind she was.

Michael considered her, then shrugged. “Or, you can come to my cottage in St. Tropez.” 

She choked on her water. “Excuse me?” She had just decided she wasn’t going to sleep with him. 

“I’m not on the call sheet again for three weeks.” She tried to remember what type of film he was doing — some big ensemble thing involving time travel or magic or mermaids. “I thought about doing a short booking but decided, you know what, fuck it. I took over my family’s place last year in St. Tropez and I’ve barely spent time there. So I’m hosting people there over the next week. Freddie’s coming, and Nick and Bex, so it’ll be secure. Colin may come; he seems to be having girl trouble.” 

“Colin?” She raised an eyebrow, wishing she was more in the loop. She fingered her phone, wondering if she could text Daff or Ben to find out the gossip. She’d rather text Ant — surely he would have the strongest and most entertaining Opinions — but that was obviously off the table. 

“Apparently. Anyways. Sophie should come, she seems fun. And bring your toyboy,” he said. “There’s no problem ten days in St. Tropez can’t solve.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” But she laughed. She still felt like absolute shit, but it was her first laugh in days. “But I do think it’s worth a shot.” 

With a yawn, El clomped down the stairs. It was term break, and she’d somehow ended up at a club with Ben until two A.M., despite the fact that she had a dress fitting for Daff’s wedding at nine, and she’d promised that she would absolutely be on time. 

Pen and Fran were both already in the kitchen, Fran sipping a cuppa while editing a composition, and Pen eating avocado toast. Pen’s eyes widened when El walked in, and she quickly moved to stand. They had not really been speaking since Pen went absolutely bonkers and slept with Col. “No need to get up,” El said, with a hint of snark. “Quite surprised that you’re here and not in the Strand.” 

“ Eloise.” Fran groaned. “That isn’t even a clever jab.” 

“If I thought I had something to apologize for, I would,” Pen replied. “But I don’t, so I can’t. How can we make this less weird? It’s been more than a week.” 

“Nothing to — you have had a crush on my stupid brother for two decades !” El sputtered. “And you said nothing. That’s a lie!” 

Fran rolled her eyes. “OK, El — everyone else knew.” 

“Yes, I really wish one of your lot had said something,” Pen said with a sigh. 

“We thought you knew we knew,” Fran said kindly. “We also thought El knew.” 

“You can make it right with honesty. Are you going to keep seeing him? We cannot have shirtless Col here wandering around in his knickers, I forbid it.” 

“Forbid! My god. We have barely spoken about it in the days since the wedding, and he’s off in St. Tropez with Michael Sterling right now.” 

“I want to be the first to know,” El insisted, temperamentally.

“I’ll be sure to ask for your blessing.” Pen rolled her eyes. “Now I have to get to work. And you all have a fitting at ten.” Pen’s voice was wistful; she was a little jealous that Daff had picked beautiful McQueen dresses for her sisters. 

“It’s at nine,” El said.

“Everyone lied to you because they thought you’d be late,” Pen said, archly, as she stood. “If we’re counting lies, go give Fran the silent treatment now too.” 

“Hey! I’m the nice one,” Fran protested. “Everybody loves me.” 

El threw a scone at Fran. “I could have slept for another hour?” 

Fran snorted. “If you can get out the door before 9:45, we will stop putting events on Eloise Time.”

El did not, in fact, get out by 9:45. 

They were only five minutes late to the atelier, though, and Daff and Mum were both sipping champagne (and Hy, orange juice) when they arrived. El had to admit that, all things considered, Daff had gone in an extremely thoughtful direction for their ceremony dresses: El’s was sleek, silk, and off-the-shoulder; Fran’s had shimmery brocade-patterned panels with a sweetheart neckline; Hy’s halter dress was covered in a tulle overlay that made the gown more age-appropriate. All had a base of the same light-blue silk Daff and Mum favored, but allowed each of them to feel comfortable and themselves. The evening dresses were similarly personalized, though all were deep lilac and more dramatic: sequins for El, gossamer-threaded netting for Fran, a fun print for Hy. 

“Have you all picked your readings?” Daff asked, fussing with a pin in Hy’s dress. 

“Does a modern feminist essay on love count? Or do you want like, ee cummings?” El asked, with a bit of an eyeroll.

“I wanted to do ee cummings,” Hy said, crossly. 

“I want whatever you think best encapsulates love, commitment, and your hopes for our future. If you can burn down the aristocracy as you do that, I don’t care a whit.” 

Sometimes, Daff impressed her. “I was honestly thinking something by Dolly Alderton,” El said. “Or Neal Gaiman. I haven’t decided.” The pieces she liked had probably never been recited in Canterbury Cathedral.

“Great. I look forward to hearing it.” 

“Eloise —” Mum started.

“— No, Mum, I’m serious. Whatever all of you think best encapsulates love and commitment and your wishes for me and Si on our wedding day, I’m happy with them.” Daff sighed, but in a faraway type of mood, as if she was off contemplating marriage and commitment and all that. El rolled her eyes. “I want them.” 

The dresses — thank God — would absolutely be ready by the wedding day, Sarah announced as they wrapped up the fitting. Vi suggested brunch but all four of them begged off; claiming activities but in reality all tired in their different ways. El and Fran grabbed an uber back to Notting Hill, El thumbing through — what else — Lady Whistledown on her phone. 

“Are you still trying to figure this out?” Fran asked, not unkindly. 

Now that Queen Char’s good favor seemed to hang on it, it was the least she could do. “Don’t you think it’s strange that in all the gossip about the Featherington wedding, Ant bringing Siena — and Col and Pen hooking up — didn’t get a mention?” she asked instead. 

Fran shrugged. “She’s good but not that good. Only us and Pen know about Col.” 

“Maybe.” The Siena omission was weird though. Everyone had seen her singing and vamping. “Whistledown’s so popular now, you know she’s getting tips. So it’s hard to know what parties she’s at and which ones are just passed along.” 

“She wouldn’t publish information she didn’t think was accurate, though,” Fran replied, humoring El’s line of thought. “And she clearly knows all of us well enough. So she is probably at a lot of these events, not all, but a lot.” She was quiet. “You got a phone digit right?”

“Yeah. The last number is 9. But there were fifty-five people in my Contacts that it could be.” 

“Well, why don’t you pick like, ten parties, and assume she’s at half. So make a list of how many people were at each of those parties and cross-check.”

“ Bloody good idea. Franny Banan-y.” El grinned. “You want to help?” 

“Absolutely not.” But Fran smiled back. “I want to go to the cafe and edit some this afternoon. You can come, if you want.” 

So she did, sitting across from Fran and creating a spreadsheet with the fifty-five names down the first column, and ten events across the top row. She worked methodically, as Fran wrote and wriggled to music in her headphones — probably Nick Cave, she often listened to him while working. El’s research was surprisingly engrossing, and within an hour, she had a solid list. Nobody had been to all ten parties, but three people had been to nine, and four to eight. 

Cressida Cowper. Helen Goring. Eleanor Westchester. Arabella Smith-Smythe. Nanette Ogilvy. Camille Dubois Dupont. 

Penelope Featherington. 

Kate closed her eyes, letting the warm breeze tickle her curls into her nostrils. Michael had been right: the South of France was restorative. On her left, Bex lounged in an expensive green caftan as she paged through a novel; Sophie, in a black and white thong one-piece, sipped a mimosa to her left. 

“What a perfect way to say goodbye to London,” Soph murmured. 

Kate snorted as she scrolled through a tabloid’s Twitter account, halfheartedly searching for photos of Ant and Siena. “Wrong country.” 

“I’m at an estate and the future Queen is here.” Soph relaxed further into her lounger. “Perfect way to say goodbye.” 

“Hush or I’ll make you sing God Save the Queen,” Bex, voice sleepy, teased. “To an image of Eleanor on my phone, of course.” She took a long drag of a mimosa. 

“I’m always happy to pledge my loyalty to Queen and Country,” Soph said with a slight guffaw. 

Kate had expected that Sterling’s “cottage” to be basically a villa, but even four months around Britain’s wealthiest didn’t prepare her for the scope of Michael’s chateau: Her jaw dropped so far when they walked in that Sophie had had to quietly tell her Michael came from serious family money on his Scottish-born father’s side. Eight bedrooms and a guest house poured over seven acres, along with a small vineyard, a horse barn, greenhouse, two wine cellars, two pools, and three tennis courts (Kate studiously avoided those). The sun-dappled main house was mostly Mediterranean-style, but with splashes of more traditional French-country design, like the brightly colored blue doors and crooked wooden shutters that lent it a bit of shabby unkemptness. The house backed right onto a cliff on St. Tropez Peninsula; right beyond the sunken pool, the land dropped twenty feet, affording them stunning views of the ocean beyond. 

There was an easy cadence to the week. Freddie especially surprised her, though he and Colin had gone out a few nights and slept till one P.M., and he had invited models named Jenna and Gemma along for the week. But Fred seemed overall content to hang by the pool, go out on the boat, play with his niece, and participate in game nights like the rest of them. They went into town in the afternoons and evenings, but between the Royals and the celebrity everyone was content with a low profile and meals cooked by the Michelin-starred chef Michael employed. It was a louche, lazily debauched visit. 

“This is a perfect vacation.” Bex sighed. “Monday we leave for the Kenya and Namibia tour and then weeks in Scotland smelling like old wet wool with Eleanor and Prince Dick.” 

Soph tapped Kate’s foot. “You feeling more balanced? I’ve been worried.” 

“What? Absolutely,” she said, still scrolling through Instagram. There Ant and Siena were, walking into a party, a few feet between them, sponsored by Vogue and Self Portrait, last night. “What a place to recharge.” She didn’t sound convincing even to herself. She itched under the top of her ruby-red bandeau bikini top and threw her phone down. 

Sophie took a sip of her drink, and studiously flipped through a magazine. “How’s Edwina?“ she asked, feigning casualness. 

They hadn’t spoken in a week — the longest stretch Kate could remember. “Good. Getting her head back in the game.” This was fact; Eddie had posted a series of photos from Wimbledon on Instagram, with the last photo the wing of a plane, with the caption Life is a journey and mine’s just beginning.

“She’s in the States until the Open?” 

“North America, generally.” She had one tournament in Toronto.

“And Dorset?” 

Suddenly there was a magnificent clap of the veranda door and they all turned; as if summoned Tom appeared, dressed in fitted navy trunks and an unbuttoned short-sleeved Oxford, a towel wrapped around his neck. She held out a hand for a light wave as he walked toward them. 

The answer to Sophie’s question was that Kate had been having as much sex as she possibly could with him and she was still simply in a melancholic mood underneath it all. 

“Ladies.” He grinned. “Beautiful day. Sterling mentioned taking the boat out later.” 

Bex and Soph exchanged a look and then smiled at him. “For sure. For now, I’m going to see if Georgina is up from her nap,” Bex announced, standing up. 

“And I , a twenty-eight-year-old woman, need a nap before the yacht,” Sophie said with a quirk of her lips, also standing. 

Tom smirked saucily at Kate. “All alone, then. Fancy a dip?” 

She took a breath to snap into focus and smiled back, smoothing her hair back into a topknot as she did. “Yes please.” 

She slid into the pool — naturally, the perfect temperature — and asked, “I suppose you’re a fantastic swimmer, all that time in Haiti?” She breaststroked over to him and looped her arms around his neck, belly warming just slightly as leaned in toward him. 

He put his hands on her hips. “I spend more time working on my tan,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “Pasty English complexion and all that.” She smirked, kissing him back more deeply, focusing on losing herself in him. “Thanks for inviting me. This is fun. And this is easy, yeah?” With a nod, he indicated between them. 

“Easy. Yeah,” she smiled. Then, without warning, she grabbed his hip and jumped on him at the same time — effectively dunking him as she cackled delightedly. With a gasping laugh he spun her, then pinned her to the side of the pool as his fingers slipped under her briefs to massage her bum. Thoughts effectively banished. 

Because the thing was, she thought — hours later, as their sixty-foot luxury sailboat cut through the Mediterranean — it was easy. So easy. She had not really dated in college, just a series of hookups on a spectrum of seriousness and sobriety. She had been fun in college, always careening and never going over the edge, balancing between what her family expected and what she needed. She’d been the perfect student and rowing team captain and occasionally had a wild, reckless night in Vienna or London or with a cute boy from Pembroke College. She would always dance on the table, buy the cheap airfare, kiss the handsome stranger. It was perfect. 

When she’d moved to the States, responsibilities to Appa and Edwina creeping ever tighter, dating became a fun, easy escape from all those responsibilities, as well as a convenient sleight-of-hand to maintain independence. At twenty-two she realized quickly she was smart and gorgeous, and thus the last six years had been a steady diet of the interesting and, well, eligible : A professor at Columbia, her first semester. A CNN anchor, a New York Times political reporter, an ER intern. Several hedge-fund guys, a medieval art PhD student, an Olympic rowing coach, the Mayor’s press secretary, a Teach For America teacher, several classmates, a few practicing lawyers, an up-and-coming celebrity chef, and finally, diplomats from Spain, Switzerland, and Iran. Each of these relationships — monogamous, fun, low-expectation — lasted somewhere between two weeks and six months. She didn’t do hookups or drama or anonymity — all Lord Anthony Bridgerton moves — but she had hardly arrived back in London inexperienced, or unaware of her needs and desires.

In New York, she always dated interesting, smart, powerful men. Like Tom — and Ant — they were usually tall, with excellent academic pedigrees and impressive and impressively busy careers. She liked the chase and being chased. She especially liked posh guys; blue-blooded if American and vaguely aristo if they were from Commonwealth countries. Eight of the twenty-one men she dated in New York had gone to Harvard, three had their pilot licenses, two had been in (different) Kennedy weddings. It was always fun, no-strings, light and compartmentalized — Appa stayed with her four days out of every fourteen, and never met a boyfriend. Though she supposed, now, that all these men were much closer to friends-with-benefits — actual friends-with-benefits — than boyfriends. Her friends had termed her boy-preoccupied: she was always dating someone or distracting herself with something new, but never losing her head or her fundamental sense of self or destiny. 

The men she dated knew the contours of her family life, but there was never any expectation, nor aspiration, of more. She always led with I’m not looking for something serious, and she knew that ‘emotionally unavailable’ was as appealing to them as her sense of humor or her looks. It worked frictionlessly: She broke up with the law professor when she was done with his class. The Times reporter took a job in DC; the CNN anchor, Atlanta; the TFA guy went to Boston for a Master’s. They were relationships of comfort and companionship: She learned what she liked in bed, exactly how much she could give of herself without losing herself. They provided just enough distraction, just enough of a challenge, just enough activity to keep from getting lonely or lost or overwhelmed. 

The relationships fit exactly into the space she had left over for herself. 

She was, always, perfectly in control. 

That was why she had expected Tom to be a comfort. He vaguely looked like a politician, with perfect wavy hair and a grin just a touch too big. He was posh, and driven, and independent. He would go back to Haiti in seven weeks and that would be that. Check, check, check, and check. 

And yet what was once the perfect amount was somehow, suddenly, not nearly enough. 

Tom was lovely, and yet it felt absolutely automatic. She had thrown herself into it because she expected a rebound to get her over Anthony more quickly. Yet it was somehow dragging her back, making her thoughts circle around all their fights, pick over the parts of herself that he had pushed on. 

She realized now how self-protective her dating life had been: not just a refuge or distraction from her responsibilities, but living fully in relationships with no future had somehow kept her own future — a future without Appa, and a future where she potentially got sick, as well — at bay. She did truly enjoy all of her dating adventures and misadventures, did truly have a carefree half-decade in New York, but the presentism kept her balanced enough to do what she needed to do for her family, for her job, for everyone else. She had never thought about the test, never thought about her decision not to settle down, never thought about what came next. 

And now, she was thinking about it all the time. 

She hesitated, truly, to attribute that all to Ant. He was equally awful at relationships, and this wasn’t a movie where she had blossomed under a man’s patient attention. Yes, she had fallen in love with him, and that was terrifying and had gotten her into trouble. And yes, she had (much more so than him) a clear measure of how damn impressive, kind, and hardworking he was. But she also knew all his flaws, his frustrations. He vexed her endlessly. There was nothing perfect about him or the time they shared together. He was mulish and stubborn and hardly self-aware. She, a deeply logical person, would not simply reorder her belief system and go oh nevermind after four months of excellent sex. She was too strong, too sure, too smart, for his simple existence to do that. Even if he’d wormed his way into a space much larger than the space she had for him. 

No, she had somehow been changed, as well. 

“You look pensieve,” Michael said, coming up to her with a glass of white. He really was the most considerate host; often quietly checking in on her but never putting her on the spot. He went out with Freddie and Col, and either Jenna or Gemma was sharing his room, but her early read was proving true: He was grounded, and patient, and perceptive. 

She took the glass. “Thanks.” She sipped the wine, stared at the sunset. “And not pensieve. Just thinking.” 

“Does the word mean something in English that I’m not aware of?” he joked, leaning against the railing, a Kronenberg dangling between his fingertips.

“No, I just meant … I’m enjoying myself.” 

“Are you?” 

“Sure. Those cliffs are beautiful.” She nodded toward the jagged white rocks rising out of the water, which were truly stunning. 

“Pieces break off every couple of years to create those formations — water and sand into the crevices and little by little totally break down the rock from the inside. You’d never expect something so small to have such a big impact.” 

Kate knew how the rocks felt. 

“Is this about what happened between you and Colin’s brother?” At her raised eyebrow, he said, “Oh, come on. Everyone but you has mentioned that affair on this trip.” 

“Oh god.” Affair? Gross. “Yes. No. All of the above?” she finally answered. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t have to talk.” 

It was necessary permission from a stranger. “Ant and I accidentally got in too deep, too fast, and I broke it off about five weeks ago when I … realized I was madly in love with him.” It was the first time she had admitted that. “Col doesn’t know, obviously.” 

“Got it.” 

“My family is … complicated, and I moved back because they needed me. But somehow I … Edwina isn’t speaking to me, I can’t do anything about my dad, and what was supposed to be a distraction with Ant got just absolutely out of hand. We want different things, or I think we want different things. I don’t know if we want different things.” She sighed. “I don’t think he knows what he wants. I don’t think he knows he doesn’t know what he wants. And I … I definitely don’t know what I want.” It was the first time, in at least a decade, that that was true. Or at least, the first time in a decade she could admit that. “And I’ve hurt him, and he’s hurt me, and we agreed to give each other space and I just … I thought I could move on, I thought I could get over him, and I just keep ruining everything .” 

“And Tom?”

“ Lovely. How I thought I could move on. Why I’m realizing I can’t.” She would need to break it off with Tom after this trip. She tipped her head on Michael’s shoulder. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?” 

“Well, it’s certainly more than ten days in France can solve — so that was a miscalculation on my part,” he said lightly. “My maman always used to say love doesn’t change you, it reveals you.” He put an arm around her and kissed her temple. “What’s this revealing about you?” 

She stared at the cliffs.

Col practically sprinted out of The Shard, trying to hold onto his suit jacket and the briefcase that he’d purchased just yesterday in an attempt to look more Businessy. Fumbling for his phone, he tried Pen’s number for the second time in as many minutes. Still straight to voicemail.

No matter. His uber was arriving. He slid into the backseat and sent Pen a message.

Ant liked the pitch. You’re a genius. 

It had been weird since he and Pen hooked up at her sister’s wedding. Well, not weird -weird, since his family found out basically immediately and Ant blew up, so they had to lie low. Then, Michael invited him and Fred to France and he left pretty quickly. He had fun spending the week fifth-wheeling Michael and Fred and Gemma and Jenna. He’d flirted with baristas and took a waitress out for a picnic lunch and generally pushed Pen to the back of his mind. And then he’d been back for about forty-eight hours and every second was spent preparing for this pitch.

Sure they’d texted a lot, whenever one of them saw something funny really, and she met him at White’s yesterday to listen to the pitch one final time, but they hadn’t really talked about the wedding.

And he was kind of glad. The thing was, Pen was a friend. She helped him with this pitch and picked him up from the bar when Marina dumped him and she was the funniest person to sit next to at a dinner party. She was trusted and trusty. But he also knew that she was a little old-fashioned, that she had dotted the i in her name with a heart until she was fifteen, got silly crushes on popstars and movie stars and things like that. Ant was a hypocritical arse, but his pleas had gotten under Col’s skin, and made him a bit jumpy, all things considered. He was a gentleman, after all. But he was keen to share this news with her.

Pen, thank god: I knew you could do it!

Celebration. Now. Where? He texted back.  

There were three dots, then a pause, then three more dots. Actually, just come meet at our place, I’m just home from work right now , she responded. Fran and El are out . 

He grinned. On my way.

Fifteen minutes later, he knocked first, but let himself in. “Pen? You home?” he called.

“Kitchen!” she exclaimed, and he could hear the faint sound of running water. 

“Pen, it went so well — what are you doing?” She was furiously washing her hands.

She smiled, a bit discombobulated but still confident, as she turned off the faucet with her elbow and held up stained-red palms. “Sorry, we have a launch party tomorrow, and my boss is bloody cheap. She had us decorate the cupcakes and now I’ve food gel all over my hands.” 

He moved to help her, grabbing the soap and the sponge. “She still calling you Sarah?” he asked, unpeeling her fingers to apply more pressure. “Tell me if it’s too rough.” 

“Nope, but I’m still Penny.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think it suits, but I work for an alcoholic maniac so I can’t be too choosy, I suppose.” 

“What’s the book?” 

“Girlfriend’s Guide to Sex and Dating — it’s a memoir of a call girl cavorting around London.” She waggled her eyebrows, then brightened. “I did bring you two cupcakes I nicked, that’s the good news.” Her voice had a teasing edge to it. 

“What’s the bad?”

“They’re penis-shaped.” She winked. “On the table.” He spied a tiny box with a ribbon. She sighed and looked at her hands. “Honestly thank you, but I think I need to shower before we go celebrate.” She handed him the cupcakes and gave him a firm look. “Here. Come sit at my desk and tell me about it as I clean up.” 

His eyes widened slightly, but he followed her upstairs, sitting gingerly on her bed while she slid the door to the ensuite mostly shut and started to change. He could see her shadow dancing, and averted his eyes when he saw the curve of her breast through the mirror. He blushed. “So, Ant liked it?” she called as the water started. 

Satisfied that she really did seem like she was going to just shower, and he didn’t need to think about if he wanted to join, he leaned back on her pillows and crossed his legs. He opened the box containing the penis cupcakes. The decorations were surprisingly well-done, and pretty anatomically accurate. He broke one in three pieces before eating it. 

“Yeah! He said that Hotels had been thinking about how to break into the Millennial market — compete with apps and all that. Oh, and he was really impressed with the slides, and all the, um, vertical integration. And the forecasts! Oh man Pen, he loved the financial forecasts.” He smashed the cupcake into his mouth. 

“What about the content? Did you talk about content, and the community you’re going to build?” 

“Yup!” And he was off, nattering about Ant’s questions and the brilliant way he defended the idea. It really had been a joint thing, at the end of the day. 

He was so caught up that he didn’t hear the water stop, or Pen fussing again in the bathroom. He was still talking, in fact — “He’s going to run numbers soon but he’s thinking we could make an initial investment in five cities in Q4, that’s this fall —” when Pen opened the door, and utterly shut him up for good.

Because she was in a tiny, mint-green silk bathrobe. He couldn’t quite see under it, but she definitely had on some sort of sheer corset or lingerie — her tits looked, for lack of a better term, fucking amazing . Her hair was curly around her face and he thought she might’ve put makeup on, too.

Self-consciously, he swiped at his shirt in case there were crumbs. “Cupcakes and lingerie?” he finally asked, flicking his eyes up and down. “Penelope Featherington, is this a seduction?” 

“I thought maybe we could start the celebration here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stepped closer, trailing a finger from her lips down her chest, all the way to the tiny sash keeping the robe together. “El and Fran —”

“Out for hours,” she breathed. She started to unbutton his fancy dress shirt, direct from Ant’s preferred tailor. “And I have condoms in my nightstand.” She looked at him expectantly through her lashes, then bit her lip. It cast her in a much more nervous light, and made her look much younger. He heard Ant and Ben’s taunts in his ear.

Fuck them. 

He leaned forward and kissed her gently, pulling the sash so it draped open. He slid a hand around her waist. The corset and underwear were a lacy lavender, covered in tiny orange and yellow flowers, and he pushed the robe all the way off as he continued to kiss her. 

She marched him backwards to the bed, pushed him down as she tried to get his shirt completely off. “I think you deserve a reward,” she said, her voice a little funny and deep, as if she was trying a bit. She yanked his shirt off, tried to get at his belt clumsily as they kept kissing. He ran his fingers between her thighs, stroking whatever he could find. She was so soft, so wet, all for him, he thought, as his thumbnail found her clit. “And yeah, it is a little bit of a seduction.” She pulled back triumphantly as she got the belt off and slid down the zipper.

“Consider myself seduced.” He grinned, diving back in to kiss her as she reached a hand into his pants.

Best. Celebration. Ever. 

“Kate, is something wrong with your paneer?” Mum asked, worried, spooning some more over her own rice and roti. “You’ve hardly eaten.” It was Kate’s first Friday night dinner in a while, and honestly she could barely muster the energy. 

“What? No. It’s fantastic, as always, Mum.” Twenty-two years ago, Mary had committed herself to mastering North Indian cuisine, to give Kate and her father a sense of continuity, and she’d done such a good job that even Kate’s grandmother thought it was good. It was one of the greatest acts of love Kate had ever witnessed.

Appa cocked his head. “You’ve been quiet, Kathani.”

“Yes, I expected you to be filled with stories from France!” Mary smiled. “How was your time with the handsome movie star and royalty?” She practically tittered with the glamour of it all. Kate realized, with some satisfaction, that they had not caught on to the fact that she had taken another date with her on the trip. Which was good; she had not spoken to Tom since and wasn’t sure she planned to. 

“It was good. Michael surprised me; he’s honestly really kind.” She smiled. “Can you pass the roti?” 

“I spoke to Edwina today, she’s off to Atlanta next week. She said she stopped in Boston and it’s a lovely city.” 

“I went a few times.” Kate scratched under her ear. “I really liked it too. I’m glad she’s having a good time.” 

Mary and Appa exchanged a look. Appa raised his eyebrow, urging Mum to try again. Something was up, she realized. She was being cajoled. Appa always let Mum take the lead, and then he came in for the kill. He was still the final authority in the family. “You said Colin Bridgerton came and so did Sophie, did Anthony or Benedict come?” Mum asked brightly. 

“No, Soph and Ben are over, now that she’s moving to Italy.” Kate missed her already. “And Ant and I — we decided it’s best that we don’t see each other right now, after everything.” 

“For how long?” Mum asked. “Edwina seemed to think —”

“Edwina doesn’t know ,” Kate interrupted, her fork clanging on the plate. “For a while.” Though Daff’s wedding was in three weeks; she was definitely going and he obviously would as well. So she had that to look forward to. Soph, the traitor, would be sitting with Ben, so she’d invited Michael to keep her company. “What’s going on around here? And new gossip in the Tesco aisles?” 

Her father sighed, then took over. “Kathani. We spoke with Dr. Shah today —”

“— How is the new treatment working?” That reminded her; she needed to take a look at the household budget again now that they had the new estimates for its cost. And the roof needed a repair, according to Mum, that would need to be addressed. 

“— As well as one could expect.” He looked at her sharply. “But we’ve begun to discuss an assisted care facility.”

“What?” She dropped her fork with a clatter. “Absolutely not.”  

“Appa is reaching a level of care where it’s necessary —”

“—Then I’ll move in.” She’d promised in April. It was the least she could do; it was what was expected. Besides, she had seen the financials. Appa deserved private care, which was far more than they could afford on her parents’ limited budget. He had a generous pension, and Kate had been prudent with their good investments, but there simply were not the funds even if Mum returned to work.

“It is not your call, Kathani,” her father said sternly. 

“You made it my call when ten years ago, Mum handed me the books and asked, what do we do,” she said, raising her voice. “Or when you stopped searching for trials and treatments because you were so depressed to lose your career. I have made every decision since then and I have made good ones.” 

Appa’s eyes flashed. “You may want to reconsider this impertinent line of thinking, my darling daughter.”  It was not stated as a threat, but simply as a matter of fact, and it made her blood boil even more. 

“Whatever.” She threw down her fork, feeling petulant and tired and almost … disrespected. “I’m going to take Newton and go on a walk.” 

Forty-five minutes later she returned, still feeling deeply unsettled. She wandered toward the back door, practically dragging the poor old corgi. “Kathani,” Mum said, completely hidden in the shadows.

“Mary.” She jumped, hand on her chest. “You gave me a fright.” 

Mum raised her eyebrow at the use of her name. “Awfully long walk for a corgi.” 

“He did alright,” she replied defensively.

“I’m sure. Because it was an awfully short walk for a lost young woman.” 

And with that, Kate promptly burst into tears, sitting down next to Mary.

“Oh my darling.” Mum folded her into her arms. “I hate to see you hurting like this.” 

“It’s not my favorite, either,” she admitted. “I’m sorry for yelling at you and Appa but I really do believe —”

“Kate.” Her mother stopped her. Smoothed her hand through Kate’s hair and took a breath. “When I first met you — your father was teaching you chess. Do you remember the first question he asked you, before every move?”

She smiled at the memory. “What are my options ,” she recited. It was meant to bring focus, and clarity. She still found herself asking herself that at the beginning of a hard trial.

“Exactly.” Mary frowned. “I worry, Kate — since you decided to move home, have you asked yourself that question? I mean, really.” 

“I — of course.” 

“OK, then. An easy one: With your father, what are your options?” 

“To move in, of course.” 

“And?” 

“To — not. But Mum, you don’t understand—” 

“I understand that your father moved to this country because he wanted more for himself, and then for you and your sister.” She sighed. “Your upbringing — it was a hard one, wasn’t it?” 

“I — I loved it. I loved it, and you, and Appa and Edwina. Even if losing Amma was awful.”

“Oh, I don’t mean with that, though of course that was awful. But your father, until you were nearly eight, was a very traditional and conservative father, and then a single father. And then — you were always his pride, the one with the greatest expectations. Tennis he didn’t understand, but school, learning, he did. All those expectations … right on you. And then we sent you to India every summer, and I was so concerned with making sure you still felt South Asian enough, but of course I didn’t feel that with Eddie …” She sighed. “Well, you had a lot of expectations, and a lot of pressure to be successful, good in school and always saying the right thing to Aunties who thought I wasn’t good enough, and taking care of everyone. And by the time Edwina was old enough to feel that kind of pressure … well, Appa was sick, and his desires for you both changed, didn’t they? He just wanted you to be happy and for you, that was not your wiring.” 

“I would do it again —” she started through her tears. 

“Kate, we all know that, darling.” Mary hugged her. “Oh you don’t have to convince any of us how much you love us all.” 

She kept hiccuping though. “Because you, you were so kind to me, to take in the motherless child in your classroom —”

“Oh Katie.” Mum pulled back a bit, and stared at her in wonderment. “Is that what this is about, a little? Oh my darling, you were my daughter from the minute your father asked me on a date, exactly as much as Edwina was as soon as she was born. You never needed to do anything to earn that. Love is never earned, do you hear me?” Kate nodded, shocked a bit by her vehemence. “Now, I’m sorry we let you take on all this. But I ask you, again, what are your options?” 

“To move in, or to not,” Kate replied, miserably.

“Or, they are: To continue to sacrifice what we don’t ask you to, or to live your own life,” Mary replied. “Or to start living your own life. It feels like it’s been a little rough lately, darling.” 

Kate started to really cry then, pressing her hands against her eyes and willing herself to stop. “Edwina hates me,” she admitted.

“She does not,” Mum said. “Though I think she’s quite frustrated with you right now. She feels a little betrayed by all you kept to yourself.”

“All I —”

“—I know. What about Anthony?” Mum asked gently. “You seemed quite taken with him in Paris.” 

“I broke up with him, we’re not speaking, and he’s trying to get engaged as quickly as possible to a pop star.” She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that. The words somehow just poured out. 

Mum blinked. “OK. Please catch a middle-aged woman up on what all that means.” 

Kate sighed, finally feeling steadier. “He asked me to move in with him,” she said slowly. “Well, technically, he said that since we weren’t really … keeping it casual —” She absolutely could not go into the Sex Contract with Mum — “we might as well move in together. And so we fought, and we broke up, and now we can barely stand to be in the same room without yelling at each other.”

Mary was quiet. “Why did you fight? You cared for him so deeply, why was that a terrible thing?”

She started to cry again. “In the moment, because I thought he didn’t want me. ” The words were still hard to say; it felt like a failure, to want something and need something and know it was out of reach. “And now he’s with an ex but I kind of think … maybe he did ?” She sighed. “But also, I have never wanted to settle down, not with Appa and Edwina needing so much and then … four months around Anthony and I didn’t know my arse from my elbow, truly.” She sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Disgusting. “He wanted kids and children, immediately. And I never wanted anything serious until suddenly, I didn’t know what I wanted, or why.” She took a breath.”And then he comes in with promises, promises. And I was so lost, I think I … freaked out.” 

He had immediately filled the space she had available for herself, for a relationship, wormed into every crevice and expanded it and utterly destabilized her, wove himself around her friends and family with croissants and games of Pall Mall and the noise of him sending emails from her couch. Left a gaping, much larger hole than she had started with in return. 

Mum wrapped an arm around her, and sighed deeply. The exhale transferred to Kate, and it felt instantly calming. “What do you want?” she probed gently. “A husband, children, a family? To overhaul international criminal justice reform? To be a philanthropist, or run society? To learn how to ice skate? All of the above? You could do it all, you know.” 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just … don’t.” She’d never asked, she’d never been asked, and so she’d never figured that out. And now, everything was so vast and so blank. 

Mum sighed. “The PD test. Would that help you figure it out?” 

She put her head in her hands, slowly. Mum had never understood why she didn’t want it — Kate had never deeply understood why she didn’t want it. But given all her responsibilities, given the unrelenting propulsive nature of planning and managing everyone’s lives, of worrying about them — it had truly always felt like knowledge that might completely break her. “I don’t know,” she replied, voice very quiet. 

Mum nodded, her cheek still smushed against Kate’s temple. “I want you to ask what you want for yourself , Katie,” she said. “Take some time, and consider it. That is every parent’s greatest hope … And I know we’ve relied on you too easily. But know that we will be fine . We may not balance the budget as well or perfectly as you do, but we can make it. And your father and I have discussed it endlessly. Do you know how hard it is, being in this big house, being so far from you and Edwina and friends? His friends used to visit but not so much anymore.It can be lonely for him now that it’s harder for him to travel. Nobody to play chess with.”

Kate had never considered that. “He has me on Fridays.” She was still not ready to give up her role in everyone’s lives. 

“Your father’s mind needs more than one day of chess a week.” Mary laughed. “But please know this — I want you to have a vibrant, full life. A complicated one, even! A messy one, with failures and laughter and burned pots and bad decisions. Certainly not one where you’re making decisions because of us, without bringing us in on that conversation. And limiting yourself in the process.” She pulled back, and tucked hair behind Kate’s ear. “Maybe it’s with Anthony. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s with someone else. Maybe it’s alone. I know it’s scary, but you have to know what you want , Kate. Otherwise you’re never going to get it.” 

There was a second, deeper fear under that question — what if she wanted it but she didn’t get it — but she nodded, instead. She was so very, very tired. “OK,” she nodded.

“Good,” Mary said. “Now, you need to go talk to your father — he’s in the study watching cricket. Do you want to stay out here tonight? I’m worried about you driving back. That was heavy, darling.” 

She shook her head. “I want to go back. My own bed is easier to sleep in.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” she said, and it was the first time in a while she was confident in that answer.

She and Appa talked;she apologized. They watched Pakistani club cricket on the dial-up. She drove back, sipping a chai to stay awake. She slept like the dead until ten A.M. the next morning, then went on a five-mile run — Ant had ceded the club, but it still did not feel right.

When she returned, she stared at her computer. Paced for a bit. Opened the lid, then shut it.

Finally she logged into her email, clicked open a New Message. Started typing in Dr. Shah’s email address.

Dear Dr. Shah — This is Kathani Sharma, Nikhil’s older daughter (the one who questioned your recommendation of ultrasound treatment). I’m writing to inquire about taking the genetic test for PD, to understand my risk of inheriting the disease. Please email me back at your earliest convenience. 

She closed the laptop with a satisfied click . 

Chapter Text

So it's not gonna be easy. It's going to be really hard; we're gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me ... every day." — The Notebook

“She’s just being completely mental —” El’s voice ranted from his phone’s speaker; he’d barely been able to get a word in edgewise for  six minutes, “—I’m not even bringing a date, it’s not like it’s the 1800s and I am some debutante at a ball —”

“—El,” he finally cut in, jamming the Jaguar into park and grabbing the phone. “Breathe.” Daff had decided she wanted her family to do the second dance — all paired off, so Ant would dance with his mother, Ben with El, Col with Fran, and Greg and Hy — and Lady Vi had deemed El’s dancing subpar and suggested a class, which instigated this tantrum. Ant didn’t disagree with Mother; El had nearly broken his foot learning to waltz the first time around. And the objection made a delicate situation all the more fraught; after all, Daff’s plan was supposed to gloss over the fact that Edmund was not there, and Si’s family was its own bag of tricks. 

But he was trying to help El. 

She took a big inhale and then breathed it out. “Sorry. OK.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, as he got out of the car. “Listen. Could you fight Mother on this, and win? Potentially, though you’ll both get mad in the process. You could also ignore her and see if it comes up again in a few days’ time. But you could just —” He dodged around a street vendor — “take the damn course.” 

“—But I don’t want to. It’s stupid and patriarchal.” 

He rolled his eyes. How did his siblings think you could just do what you wanted in life? “It’s a wedding, El. It’s all stupid and patriarchal until you step back and remember it’s about your sister, and her happiness. You are right; Mother is being overbearing. But this will all be over in eight days, and then you never have to take a ballroom dance class again. It will just take you approximately the same amount of time to argue with Lady Vi as it will to take the class. And you’ll be much madder about one of those.” He entered Inko Nito and waved to Siena, held up a finger to indicate one minute .

El was silent. “OK, you’re probably right,” she finally conceded. “And Fran and Col were right that you would have good advice.” 

“Yes, well, I too was in the Oxford Debating Society.” Best not to be too nice all of the sudden. “Anyways. Chin up, light feet, all of that. Get your revenge by doing the Macarena at your wedding.”

“I’m never getting married.” She scoffed, then hung up. 

He made his way to Siena, clean-faced and pretty in a strappy white-silk tank and black jeans, three-inch slingbacks on her feet. Her hair was glossy, her jewelry delicate and dangling. “Evening, poppet,” he said, leaning down to peck her cheek. “Sorry about that.”

She raised an eyebrow, sympathetically. “Which sibling?” 

“Eloise. Mother wants her to take a ballroom brush-up. She thinks marriage is a patriarchal institution.”   

“Bridge, you need to keep a tally of how many problems you solve for your family every day,” she said, with a light and teasing tone. “You’re too good to them.” 

He stiffened, a touch. “They’re family,” he reminded her. “It’s my duty to care for them.” 

“Anthony, I know,” she said seriously but slightly impatiently, her eyes wide and imploring. “Trust me, I’m saying it for you — you take on so much for them.” 

His initial, somewhat ridiculous, urge was to argue with her; steamroll her a bit with the reflexive reminder that obviously he would pick up the phone for a sibling and it wasn’t a big deal. But the rational part of his brain pointed out that her concern felt genuine. So instead he took a breath and said, “Of course, thank you. How was your day?” 

Eyes sparkling, she dove immediately in, and he smiled fondly as she did. The joy that she saw the world with was optimistic and delightful; he could do with more vivacity. Everything about Siena was a narrative; there were no random encounters or simple Tuesdays, only lessons to learn and battles to win. Today involved one of her old producers positively begging her to write for a new and much younger artist, and her dear friend Lucy, a magazine editor, suggesting she host a podcast on inspiring women of Britain. 

It had been a month and change since he’d asked Siena to be exclusive. He could admit it had been a shift, to enter something intentionally and a bit formally. With Kate, it had been quick and easy and dangerous as falling asleep; with Siena last time around, they’d created a space to forget the whole world, an escape from the drudgeries they were now confronting. 

This, now, this trying , felt like exercise: Achy and sometimes painful and ultimately good, the way that his legs felt now that he’d switched from rowing to running. A purposeful stiffness, as he figured out what worked, how to make things work. Filled with the knowledge that he could master it, with enough proactiveness and practice. 

Sure, there was friction — her parties, his hours — but he remained hopeful that it could be a content, beneficial, fruitful partnership. 

He remained hopeful it would be enough. 

Because it had to be. 

What surprised him, though, was how closely intimacy flowed from effort. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps it was some fundamental law of relationships he hadn’t known — in generally trying to be better, to everyone, he became better: A better brother, friend, partner. 

Previously, the only person he had an actual conversation with, the only person he’d naturally wanted to know, since his father died, was Kate. He’d chalked that up to the flame of their attraction, the unthinking way she’d just seen him. Everyone else had always received an interrogation, a directive, a lecture. Emotional arbitrage.

But in the last few weeks, he critiqued Col’s pitch, instead of dismissing it; he listened to Greg’s girl problems, instead of scolding; he got Ben drunk and chatty when Soph flew off to Italy, instead of saying nothing. Siena’s moods seemed less unpredictable, her stories and many feelings less dramatic and more engaging — she had a flair for the dramatic but she simply wanted attention, interest. Mere proximity had a gravitational pull, was relentless and inevitable, currents sculpting the shoreline. Attachment, perhaps even love, felt inevitable, which felt like both too much and not enough. It was sleepily complacent, but seductive; something he would simply drift into gently, lulled by the currents of time.

He didn’t know how he felt about that. 

“I think it could be a powerful platform,” she said, pulling him out of his thoughts. She raised an eyebrow, clearly catching him drifting off, and changed the subject. “So, d’you reckon your mother or Daphne is most stressed by this wedding?” Her tone was arch, sarcastic.

“Oh, Mother for sure, followed by El.” He laughed, though it was a bit of a lie, he was the most stressed. Giving away your sister was quite the responsibility. 

She chuckled too, twisting a stack of rings around her finger. “I can’t wait to see what she picks for her reading,” she replied. “Anyways. I got an invitation to present at the Whole Child Awards next Friday. I’m going to drive down Saturday,” she said, looking at him hesitantly. “Just with everything with your family, I don’t want to — I’m excited, but I know you must all have a million things to do.” 

He nodded. He wasn’t quite surprised, but he did volunteer, “You know that I would protect you, yeah?” 

“I do, and you know I can handle myself.”  She sighed, and dialed it back. “I do think this is best though.” 

“I’ll save you a dance,” he said. 

“I’ll sing you a song,” she finished, tapping her fingers on his. “Anyways. The Monday after the wedding, I have a meeting with my label, at Annabel’s. Can you come? It would mean a ton, really .” 

“I thought their offer was shit? And you wanted a new thing?” 

“Always come to the table, Ant.” Her eyes sparkled. 

He raised an eyebrow; this was not in the plan, but Siena was fond of intoning that plans were meant to be broken — which was, of course, untrue. “If you need the support, of course.” This was the fourth or fifth career-related thing she’d asked about, which surprised him. 

She beamed. Compromise. He was trying, she was trying. “Excellent. Now I know you have an early breakfast with Lady Danbury tomorrow, but since this is our last night together in a while, I have a whole surprise evening planned for you!”

He was about to respond when — “Excuse me, are you Siena Rosso?” A pair of breathless teenagers appeared beside them. 

“I am,” she smiled, giving him a quick look. He nodded. “Would you like a photo?” 

“Huge fans. When is your next album coming out?” 

Her smile froze. 

The next morning, he sipped a Bloody Mary as he waited for Lady Danbury, trying desperately to take the slight edge off of his hangover post-Siena-surprise (dancing for a two-month-reconnectiversary). Danbury was on Bridgerton Group’s Board of Governors, and while he trusted Harry’s read of the tea leaves, she specifically had seemed skeptical on the quarterly call last week. 

“Lord Bridgerton, to what do I owe this honor?” Lady Danbury’s words were accompanied with a rap of her cane. 

“It’s all mine,” he replied with a smile. “Come. Sit.” 

“I’m surprised that you’re not out with my godson for a final hurrah.” She sat down with a snap of her napkin. 

“Don’t worry, he’s my next step,” Ant said. Nick was technically the best man, but since Nick could hardly move around London unobtrusively, Ant was taking on the duties. He thought about asking Ben but couldn’t have him flake, for either Daff or Simon. 

“Best to get to the point then,” Lady Danbury said. “You suspect that I won’t vote in your favor come September.” 

Ant couldn’t flinch. “I merely wished to give you the opportunity to ask questions.” He took a sip of his drink. “I know that you’ve known me since I was a boy, and you knew me when Simon and I were less than responsible. So I can understand —”

“It is not that,” she interrupted, blunt and unimpressed. “You have grown up admirably.” 

“Well then what is it?” He could hear arrogance in his tone, and strove to keep it in check. “Have I not earned this?” he tried again, more conciliatory. 

She appraised him. “Your father was a great and good man.” 

His throat tightened. “One of the best.” 

She paused before continuing. “You may not know or want to know, Anthony, but especially at the outset, he was a mediocre chief executive. Earnest but hardly inspired, and borderline un-savvy at the machinations of a boardroom. He did not have your academic pedigree, smarts, skill, or track record. What he had, though, was heart.” 

He raised an eyebrow — purely to buy himself time so he wouldn’t say something he’d regret. “A decade of stellar performance, and your vote will hinge on an unquantifiable metric?” 

Would he truly never measure up to his father?  

She shook her head, clearly disappointed. “You have done everything right. I have no doubt that you will continue to do everything right. My question is merely about whether you can … take a risk. Make the call when there is no right answer. Lead . Innovation is the only way this company will survive, and the path to innovation is not through the ‘right’ thing. It is through trying, failing, adapting.” 

He took a sip of water. “You cannot expect me to put my family’s company, my father’s legacy, at risk.” 

She looked at him shrewdly. “You’re in that obnoxious poker conclave with my godson. You must know when to bet and when to fold.” 

“I can assure you, I kick Simon’s arse at poker,” he retorted, then took a breath. “Lady Danbury, yes, I take my duty to my family seriously. It was the last thing I promised my father. But what that means is I do right by them. Not by the books, or the stock market, or the board of governors.”

“An inspired sell,” she interrupted wryly, and he smiled.

“I merely mean I don’t always do things the common way. Because there is nothing I wouldn’t do for them. No challenge I wouldn’t rise to, no decision I wouldn’t make, to ensure a prosperous and secure future for the company. We will thrive, because I will accept no other outcome.” He licked his lips. “I am a perfectionist, but I am not perfect. I may not get it right the first time. But I do get it right. Nobody will do more, or care more, or work harder, in this role. And therefore, nobody can do a better job.” 

She stared at him for the longest thirty seconds of his life. “You’ve got to be your own man, Anthony,” she said, and her tone made it clear she was not speaking as a board member.

“I am my own man,” he replied tightly. 

The rest of the breakfast was only slightly less excruciating, and he practically had to sprint to meet Simon at Gieves and Hawkes. “I’m so sorry, but I blame your godmother entirely,” Ant announced as he burst in, signaling for a glass of bourbon. 

Simon, adjusting his cufflinks, smirked. A tux-fitting was one of the few things the phalanx of planners couldn’t handle, and Ant could tell Si was enjoying it, a bit. Much of the wedding — speaking in front of hundreds, the attention — was not exactly to his taste, but this very much was. “Daff gave us a whole day of errands,” he pointed out, fluffing his collar. A tailor knelt beside him, tidying up the hem of the morning suit. “Things that only we can do.” 

“I know —”

“—Gotta pick up the groomsmen gifts, birth certificates for the licenses, and cash for all the vendors,” Simon reminded him. 

“I will buy you lunch, no need to get your knickers in a twist.” Ant ducked behind a partition to pull on his tux, fingers flying over loose seams. When he emerged, though, instead of some good-natured ribbing, Simon clearly had something to say. Ant raised an eyebrow and waited as the tailor began to make adjustments. 

“Kate called Daff this week. Asked if she could bring a date. Daff said yes, but wanted me to let you know.” 

He took in a breath, then exhaled slowly. “She say who?” He had a guess. 

“Sterling,” Si confirmed, and Ant rolled his eyes. Paparazzi photos of the two of them, her head on his shoulder and eyes wide as they leaned over a yacht railing, had come out during Colin’s jaunt to St. Tropez. “Of course, I told Daff there was no way this mattered to you, since you’re bringing Siena.” 

“Are they seeing each other?” Ant asked. Col hadn’t said anything. He wondered where Dorset, poor bloke, was.

Si rolled his eyes. “What difference does it make?” 

“I just … wondered,” he argued, chest tightening. 

Si smiled a thank-you at the tailor as he finished up. “You said it was unsalvageable, you asked her not to contact you, you started dating Siena. It’s none of your business.” 

“I know that,” he snapped. 

He had done admirably, in wrestling Kate into a bit of a box, mentally. He had reminded himself a number of times how hopeless it all was: they had fought terribly; further, there was a fundamental and hopeless misalignment in their goals that made the clean break a kindness. He mostly did not think of her. 

But she’d poked through his thoughts, inconveniently but persistently. He’d thrown a paperweight at the telly when Edwina lost. He thought of her when he learned something about the Finance Minister her father would appreciate; when Richmond beat Chelsea; when a storm woke him up. He wondered about her father, her sister, her war criminals, her sleep schedule. Plain, stupid, ordinary things sprung up, fully formed, forcing him to turn over some aspect of their relationship that he had wrestled into manageability. 

It was unfair to compare relationships; he went into them expecting different things. He was a gentleman. Siena was a full person of her own, and she was in some ways much more compatible: He knew where things stood, always, with her. 

Kate was still a frustrating mystery. 

He and Simon packed up the suits, headed to the bank. Si was boisterous and jovial, slapping backs and telling everyone that he was getting married within the week, but by the time they slouched into White’s for beer and a fish and chips, even he had been brought down with Ant’s mood. “I thought you were good with Siena,” he finally said, annoyed. “All you can talk about is mutual goals, alignment, on schedule — everything about this should make Anthony Bridgerton very content and happy.” He waved down the waiter, who cracked open two beers. “If it is about Kate — yes, I told you to fix it. But don’t fucking go starry-eyed over that relationship, now that you’re with Siena and an actual relationship is more work than you expected. You two had issues.”    

Ant flipped the bottlecap morosely. “I know, alright? I bloody know .” 

“So what is it then?” 

“I will do anything for my family.” Simon rolled his eyes, clearly expecting one tack to follow. “But at the same time, you and Daff are marrying because you choose to. Yes, it’s expected of all of us, perhaps not Ben, but the rest of us. That’s what happens, you grow up and you expect to get married.” 

Si cocked his head. “Yeah, I am choosing to marry your sister. Because, yes, I love her. But you have insisted you don’t care for love.” 

“I’m not saying I do, necessarily — and I have seven younger siblings and a company. Duties. Responsibilities .” His family had always been duty-first, family was the place where he came up short despite his most ardent wishes. He wanted to avoid feeling like a disappointment, again. “I guess I’m just saying, it looks nice to be chosen. To be someone’s one, the person they come home to.” 

The tricky thing about choosing someone was that they had to choose you, too, though. It was all a hopeless gamble. 

“And that’s … Siena? Or Kate?” 

“Kate didn’t want that,” he reminded Simon, but the edges of the old argument felt fuzzy. 

“So that’s … Siena?” 

“It could be. I’d like it to be. And yes, she seems open to it.” 

“But …” 

“How do you know if you’re choosing, or just compromising? Fuck, that sounds awful.” He rubbed a hand over his face. He knew he was floundering, he needed to pull up. 

“You still want one of those Moderately Eligibles?” 

“Christ, no.” Siena was more interesting, funny, driven, successful, than all of them. He thought, inarticulately, of Daff getting him instead of Ed next week; of Greg and Col’s girl problems; of his ability to lead BG, the one thing he felt truly confident in, suddenly called into question by Lady Danbury because he didn’t have the heart . How big the shoes were; how small he was. “I guess I just wonder, how did you know you were choosing Daff? Versus, she fit?” 

Si shrugged. “I mean, even if you think it’s a compromise between the person and your goals, or what you want and what your family needs, you get to choose to make that compromise, Bridge.” He took a sip as Ant chewed his lip. “I guess I didn’t look at it that way at all, though. It was more elemental. She was my best friend. No offense. She felt like home. I could not stay away.” Ant snorted, that was true. “A choice, sure, but it didn’t feel like a choice. With her every other decision, about where to live and my job and kids, they all made more sense after.” 

“Sometimes you cannot put the other person first, though,” Ant countered. Perhaps he should have talked to Nick, who understood duty. “There are bigger things than any one person.” 

Simon shrugged. “But what if there aren’t?” Ant shifted. “I’m not saying everything else melts away. But when I decided that Daff was it, forever, everything else felt both less important and more bearable. And that’s the choice you get to make.”

“Yeah,” Pen encouraged breathily, as Col slowly thrust into her, lazily sucked at the ticklish spot on her neck. She threaded her hands into his hair. “Right…. there….” She arched her back and grabbed the shelf behind her, pushing her clit toward more friction, shifting him imperceptibly but undeniably deeper, and moaning. “Yes, Col, oh my god, yes, there.” 

“You like that?” He panted the words with a cocky smirk, curling his body around hers, his hands trailing everywhere and lighting her on fire. “You gonna come for me, Pen?” He started to move faster, hands settling into a hard grip on her hip, bunching the sequins of her skirt tightly. It would crumple, a secret mark of affection. She pushed up, tiptoes scrabbling against the little step stool they’d found, wrapped her leg higher on his waist and ah fuck he was just so deep and sure. “You’re so tight and perfect, Pen,” he whispered. The pressure was just right, and so strong that her actual orgasm took her by surprise but somehow not him; he knew and put a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry. It was so hot. It shuddered through her, nerves fireworking from the inside out, as she rode out her climax. 

Recovered just slightly, she nipped his fingers. “Come on, big boy,” she encouraged. “Finish me off.” With a grunt he pounded into her, and she held on tight, letting him ride to completion. She felt delirious, confident, complete. 

With a groan, he emptied into the condom and went still. “That was so fucking hot,” he whispered. 

Sated and sticky, she carefully lowered her leg, untangling herself before planting a breathless kiss on his lips. “So fucking hot,” she agreed, a little deliriously. She ran two fingers around his cheeks, massaging sweat into his forehead, re-fluffing his pomaded hair. “You’re just so fucking good, Col.” 

He grinned, bashful, twisting a curl around his index finger in wonder. He was warm and happy and a little sex-drunk, his eye hooded but delighted as he petted her shoulder, the curve of her hip. “‘M glad you’re here, Pen,” he murmured. 

It had been … three weeks? … since their second hookup, in her bedroom, and they’d been sneaking around gloriously since then. It was a little difficult because his siblings were absolute pests, but they’d settled into quite a nice pattern of illicit adventurousness, or so Pen thought. In spare moments or at pubs or late on Friday nights, they’d found closets and bedrooms and, once, he rented a hotel room, which was very glam. Altogether they’d had sex ten times and she’d come every time. It was wonderful.  

His siblings were still in the dark, of course. All for the best. And he of course did not know that she was behind Lady Whistledown — she was positively dying to share, but given how many times she’d written about his family, she wasn’t sure that he would like her after that. 

It was a thrill to have such interesting secrets. 

Col carefully tied off the condom, and she straightened her crumpled Temperley dress before trying to do something with her hair. “D’ya think anyone missed us?” she asked, bright and smug. 

He gave a quick exhale, more nervous. “Probably not but soon.” He looked at the door. “I’ll go out, make sure it’s clear, knock and then you leave in thirty seconds?”

She nodded, feeling like she was coming back to earth. “Of course.” 

He kissed her cheek and slipped out, gave the signal, and then she took a deep breath before emerging. The hallway was dim and quiet, totally unoccupied. Col was nowhere to be seen. The party chattered beyond the terrace, the lights glowing in the pinky dusk. 

They were all at Aubrey Hall, for Daff and Simon’s rehearsal dinner. Daphne was in her element tonight, radiant in a nude tulle Monique Lhullier dress, covered in blue floral appliques — a beautiful, dimensional, delicate look. Simon, in a dark suit with a red-and-plum vest and tie, looked happier and more peaceful than she’d ever seen him, a total one-eighty from the surly, angry baby-duke who had stormed back into London three years ago. He still didn’t seem to like Society parties much, but the way he kept leaning down to whisper to Daff was truly adorable. The party was carefree and delighted, everyone who was truly anyone on the 200-person guest list. An additional six hundred would come tomorrow.

The only person who looked stressed this evening, truly, was Anthony, worrying along the sidelines, watching the party with one hand under his chin, constantly talking to the staff in serious tones. She’d even seen him adjust a massive floral arrangement a half-centimeter so it sat perfectly. 

“There you are.” El, looking like Winona Ryder in a sheer, ice-blue vintage Valentino, appeared at her side as she exited onto the main terrace. “Where’ve you been?” 

“Just running to the loo.” She smiled, then nodded toward the viscount, now talking to the conductor of the London Symphony, a portion of which was ensconced in the square of the terrace corner. “Why is Anthony so stressed? Because Siena’s not here?” She might as well get some dirt while throwing El off her scent.

“Oh I’ve no idea, he barely talks about her,” El said impatiently. “No, I think he just … wants the wedding to be perfect. For Daff. It’s very sweet, but he dressed down a butler today for a silverware placement.” They started to glide down the steps, and Pen listened to snippets of conversation — it looked like Marie-Christine of Greece was still trying to get Prince Dick’s … well, you know. “ So embarrassing.” 

“Yes, well,” Pen said, voice going low and warm with gossip, “at least he’s not as embarrassing as Marie-Christine over there, trying to trade up a defunct monarchy for ours. Or Eleanor Westchester —” she nodded at Daphne’s classmate, who was talking to Amir Abadi, whose family owned Harrod’s, “—moving on from Anthony with a department-store heir. Probably trying to find a home for her ugly purses.” She giggled.

El, though, gave her a bit of a strange look. “Yes, you’re right,” she mused. “And those were very witty, Pen.” 

There was a strange fluttering in Pen’s stomach, and she took a deep breath to quell it. Lady Whistledown was only growing in popularity; there had been items in the actual press about who the person might be. She received more than thirty tips a day, most of which she had to discard because they simply weren’t exclusive enough for either coverage or her take. Everyone in London read it, and the longer El did not know, the bigger of a deal it would be.

But she had already reacted so, so badly to Pen hooking up with Col at Pippa’s wedding. And there was something irritating and condescending in that reaction, as if she didn’t think Pen was good enough to be with Colin, or worthy enough to have her own romance and her own hopes and needs. To El, Pen was literally the best-friend character, not interesting enough for her own plotline. She had realized how self-absorbed El was, caught up always with her own thing, never caring about Pen’s. It made her angry, and selfish, and a tiny bit spiteful, despite how kind Eloise and all the Bridgertons had always been to her. And it made her want to hold onto the things that were hers and hers alone: Lady Whistledown. And Colin. 

She cleared her throat. “You see things if you pay attention, that’s all!” she trilled. “Come, let’s get some sushi.” She pulled El’s elbow firmly toward the food queue, and tried not to stare at the scene around her. 

Pen understood why Ant would be pressed; Aubrey Hall and its gardens looked beautiful and it would need to all be turned around, immediately, for the reception tomorrow. She had seen the estate director as well as the three house managers scurrying around all day, professional in all-black and talking into headsets. Unlike her sister’s wedding, Daff’s was almost painfully classy, layers of white and gold everywhere, pops of her colors — blue, pink, and purple — everywhere. The garden was lit up perfectly with candles and sconces, waiters swung through the crowd with trays of Veuve in crystal, discreet speakers shared both classical music and covers of Daphne and Simon’s favorite modern songs. Twenty-five tables for eight encircled a dance floor, and round tables piled with desserts stood every few tables for easy snacking. The Bridgertons had an in-house catering team on hand year-round for the performances, galas, BAFTA pre-parties, and peasant-weddings that the house hosted (all other brides were capped at fifty guests), and they would be serving the dinner later, but right now, for the cocktail hour, Simon and Daphne had hired five of the top chefs in London to each set up a station and serve their specialty; the three pieces of roe-topped bluefin nigiri on Pen’s plate would cost nearly five hundred pounds back in Soho. 

“There you two are,” Fran said brightly, looking stunning in a simple and sculptural Amsale high-low gown — blue, of course. “I couldn’t find you all or Colin anywhere.” They started to walk toward the gardens. 

El narrowed her eyes at Pen. “You wouldn’t know where Col got off too, would you?” 

She faked confusion and stared around, a wave of relief in her chest when she actually spotted him. “Oh look, he’s right there. With Fred, Ben and Soph. I didn’t know she came back?” She did know that, of course she did, but easier to look a little out of the loop. 

“Ben asked her, poor sap,” Fran said. She cleared her throat. “Anyways. I suppose you should both know — I invited John down again for tomorrow.” 

They both gasped. “He was a jerk,” El said. “He broke up with you for stupid reasons.”

“And made you cry,” Pen added. Fran did not cry. 

“I know, but —” Fran made a face that could only be considered a conciliatory grimace — “I do still care for him, dating is the pits, and he’s been apologetic. I do think it’s worth giving him another chance.” 

“Franny —” El started to whine. 

“No, El,” Fran said. “First of all, I did not ask you, and second of all, this is hardly a marriage proposal. This is me wanting to have a date for the weekend and that’s it. I’m twenty-three, I’ll dump him if and when I want.” 

“We were going to be single ladies on the prowl, though,” El pouted. 

Fran raised an eyebrow. “I am happy to be your wing-woman if you spot a girl you think is hot, but I don’t love being single. Or partying. Or meeting new people.” She sniffed. “I’ll even help you with your Whistledown search if that keeps you from saying something.” 

“Your what?” Pen asked. Her insides went cold. 

El rolled her eyes as Fran said, “Queen Char wants to figure out who Whistledown is, and give her a column. She expects our help given that she’s giving Daff a Vogue cover. And El doesn’t want to help Queen Char but does want to find Whistledown as some backward apology to Ant and Daff for how rude she’s been to them in the past.”

“That is not quite true,” El said, her face stormy. “I also like to know things.” 

Pen went very, very still. “She’s just a gossip columnist, what nonsense this all is.” 

“Exactly, but El has a list of ten or so suspects. ” Fran sighed. “Anyways, I will help you El, if you just leave me alone about John. I can’t take it, I won’t. Deal?” 

El worried her lip, glancing back and forth between them, before rolling her eyes. “Deal.” 

Pen tapped a nail against her plate. “You know, I’m feeling a little off. Must be all the sushi swimming about. I’m going to get some air.” 

Fran gave her a strange look. “We’re outside. ” 

“I’ll just take a stroll around the sculptures,” she promised, scurrying off. 

She wandered as far away as she could before panicking. Leaning against a Spinazzi, she tried to get her breathing under control. El had no idea, Queen Char wasn’t scary, she was absolutely fine.  

Everything felt so close and hot. 

She was still trying to calm herself down when several male voices came closer, and she ducked into the bush to avoid being seen. Fife, Freddie, a few other gits. And Col. 

They were laughing, and drunk, discussing the women at the party in vividly demeaning detail. “Gonna fuck little Penelope Featherington again this wedding?” Fife asked, and Pen’s heart sank as she realized that everyone knew they’d slept together. Even though she kept it out of Whistledown. “Or was it just the shade of yellow her mama stuck her in last time that did you in?” 

“Oh sod off,” Col said. “And watch your tongue on Pen, she’s a sweet girl. We’re friends.” 

Fred chortled. “He doesn’t want to just fuck her, Fife. Our boy here wants to date her.” 

“ What ?” Another voice — maybe Patrick Cavendish? She couldn’t tell — chimed in. Pen wanted to absolutely melt. “Seriously? You’d end up on her sister’s ghastly reality show.” They seemed to be walking at least, she wanted them gone, immediately. 

“Should have seen him in France, I found models to distract from the Edwina mess and he’s … turning them down. I had to give one to Sterling!” Fred said merrily. “I think our boy might be the next Bridgerton wedding. I’ll put a bet on it, gentlemen.” 

Awful as the conversation was, Pen’s heart rose a tiny bit here. 

“Oh fuck off, I’m not going to date Penelope, and I’m certainly never going to marry her,” Col said, irritable, as they walked right past her. 

She sat back involuntarily, her dress crumpling right into the mulch. It made a tiny noise, light enough that most of the boys didn’t notice.

But Col did, and as they kept walking, he turned his head toward the noise, and his eyes found hers.

He startled and tripped, opened his mouth to speak even, but Fred grabbed his shoulder and they kept walking.

And Pen was left in the literal dirt.

With a yawn, Ant briskly dodged three vacuuming maids, just a handful of the fifty-five readying the house for the evening reception. Three floors below, twenty caterers were hard at work in the kitchen already, and twenty hands were setting up one hundred twelve tables in the ballroom for dinner. Outdoors a team of forty was constructing the tent, mounting wide wooden beams, draping it all with white and purple flowers, laying out another fifty tables as well as two dozen couches and armchairs, and setting up a dance floor half the size of a soccer pitch. Probably twelve florists were constructing all of Daff’s damn flower walls.

Work at the house had started at five and Ant, already a poor sleeper and early riser, had started not far after that. He’d gone on a run with Simon and Nick, then toasted Si with bourbon on an empty stomach. 

Ant took a long shower, did a round with his mother to visit all the house managers and the estate director and the wedding planners to make sure everything was on track. He changed into his morning suit — Daff had given all her brothers exact specifications for their looks, in a panoply of blues and greys, and his was the most traditional with a navy jacket and tails, a silver vest over grey pants, and a light-blue tie. He checked his father’s watch to make sure the time was correct. And now, he needed coffee. 

The upstairs family kitchen — a bed-bath in their wing converted into essentially an expanded pantry — was well-stocked, thankfully, and he poured a mug before looking out the window. It was a brilliantly sunny day, precisely what Daff planned. The staff was setting up canisters every ten feet on the drive; there would be twelve-foot-tall sparklers shooting off as Daff and Si drove off tonight. Everything was running like clockwork, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit lost in all the action. 

His family was his duty, his whole heart, body, and soul. He’d given himself, imperfectly, to them for sixteen years, even as he knew he could never replace his father. 

Daff was grown, now, ready to fly. Col and Ben were getting there as well, imperfect as their journeys were. Fran would be fine no matter what; El honestly would only ever do things her own way. That left Greg and Hy to need him, yet he knew they would turn out fine. He felt reasonably sure he’d get through the board vote, even with Danbury’s reservations. Truly the last thing to do was to produce an heir. 

And then what? 

He’d love his children, madly. It felt inevitable. And they would need him until they didn’t. He’d run the company, extremely competently. Do everything possible to honor his father’s legacy. 

But the yearning that he’d started to feel, the wondering of what else could there be? Might there be? That had started the night in the club — that wasn’t going away. And life felt tremendously long, after sixteen years of feeling like he didn’t have enough time. 

 With all his siblings in decent enough states, with the company close to being in his hands, it was becoming time to acknowledge that if he wanted to, he could perhaps do things a little differently. He would always be the head of the family, but it could look different. His family could no longer be a reflexive excuse when he wanted to hide, or blame them when he felt trapped. 

And at the same time it was impossible, as he was playacting patriarch, not to think of his father and what he would be doing right now, to feel the pull of a different present as he pondered a changed future.  He felt his father more strongly now, at Daff’s wedding, than he had in years. Ant knew, of course, that Ed would have done all of the last six months better. The dead existed in a hallowed, liminal, idealized in-between, but he knew that Edmund would not have made a mess of things quite like he had. 

Ed could have stopped Mother and El from arguing about a ballroom dance class; stopped Col and Ben from mucking up their lives; given Greg and Fran better advice on love. Ant still had not written his speech, in part because he knew that Ed’s speech would be pitch-perfect and joyfully delivered: welcoming Si to the family,  embarrassing Daff perfectly, making Mother cry. He’d end the night singing around a piano with Prince Dick, trying to over-tip the staff. He would be so happy . Everyone would talk about it for years. 

It was still not hard to feel so desperately lacking. 

Ed would only be sixty-four; it felt absurdly young. Every time Ant visualized himself walking Daff down the aisle, telling the Archbishop that he was giving her away — all he wanted was for Edmund to do it. Daff deserved that much, not a brother who’d punched her fiance.

And, he thought selfishly, he deserved a father to help guide him through all this. 

He missed him, he loved him, he grieved him still. 

“Anthony?! Ant!” Fran called down the hallway. 

“In here!” he yelled back, coffee cup clattering as his train of thought was broken. 

“Oh good.” She breezed in, dressed in a blue silk robe with her sandy auburn hair already in a gentle updo, though her makeup was not done. “You know the password to the library computer, right? El was supposed to bring our readings from London but she forgot. Also, she changed her reading. Again.” She raised an eyebrow, and then started thumbing through her phone. “Can you print them so we can practice? I’ll email them all to you right now.”  

“Happy to be made useful.” He smiled, a touch awkwardly.

“Silly Ant.” She kissed his cheek. “You’re giving away the bride and the host. You’re the most useful person here today.” She started to dash back to the viscountess’s rooms, where the girls were all getting ready. “Thank you, you’re the best!” 

He headed over to the library, touching the handle gingerly — he’d last been in there with Kate, a summer and a lifetime ago. “Get going, Bridgerton,” he murmured to himself, before pushing it open. He clicked through his emails to find the readings and hit print, hoping against hope they’d all stuck with what they’d printed in the program last week. 

Copies in hand, he walked into the family suite. “Alright, alright, I’ve got the readings.” The entire family was there, as well as at least fifteen hair and makeup artists as well as the dress designer, but it was less frenetic than he expected. The five flower girls and four page boys were down the hall, he realized, which probably helped keep the volume under control. There was a generous breakfast spread of fruit, croissants, and soft cheeses, complemented with silver tureens of coffee, decaf, and tea. Taylor Swift piped through a speaker — Daff was walking down the aisle to Wildest Dreams, much to their mother’s consternation — and everyone, even Hy, was drinking mimosas. Mother and Col were laughing over something, Ben was keeping El and Fran amused, Greg and Hy were picking at each other. 

“El, Dolly Alderton —” He frowned; Gaiman was in the program — “Fran … Bob Marley —” Also off-book; she’d said she would read This  Would Be Our Year by The Zombies  — “Hy, the Velveteen Rabbit , Mother, Sonnet 116.” Finally, two members of the family who did what they said they would. 

“I switched it to Marley because I thought it was a nice nod to Si’s family,” Fran explained, sheepishly. Simon’s mother was Jamaican, and back in Britain for the first time in nearly thirty years this week.

“That was very thoughtful.” He smiled at her as El, already in a bespoke McQueen that cost probably twenty thousand pounds, flopped backwards onto the couch. 

“El, do sit up,” Mother clucked mildly. 

“I know that love can be loud and jubilant…It can be dancing in the swampy mud and the pouring rain at a festival and shouting ‘ YOU ARE AMAZING’ over the band,” El read dramatically, completely ignoring Mum. 

Fran jumped next to her with a giggle. “She’s not perfect. You aren’t either —” Their voices mixed as they started trading off lines and practicing, Hy eventually moving next to them and chiming in as well. Ant noticed she was still wearing her Converse, and smiled. 

“How are you doing?” he asked Daff anxiously, trying to tune out the overlapping voices.  

She smiled, perfectly serene, the Bridgerton tiara — one hundred eighty carats of diamonds and pearls, dating back five hundred years — woven perfectly through her hair. “Wonderfully,” she said, and he believed it. “Couldn’t be calmer. Couldn’t be happier.” Makeup artists and photographers fluttered around her, and she closed her eyes, long (fake) lashes dancing in the light.

He nodded. “Good. I’m proud of you, Daff.” He really, really was. “And Dad would be too.” He cleared his throat and teased, “You may officially be the most mature of all of us.” 

“I’ve had to be, but please don’t sell yourself short.” She considered him. “You look very handsome, Ant. I assume you’ve made six rounds of the grounds, and all is well.”

“Only two.” He glowered, but there was no heat behind it.

“You’re relaxing in your old age, Lord Bridgerton. How is my fiance?” 

“He … he can’t wait,” Ant said honestly, pouring himself a bourbon from the bar cart. He’d expected Si to be somewhat nervous but, while he practiced his speech carefully this morning, he was only excited. “Ready and steady.” 

“Of course,” Daff said. “And … Siena? She get in alright?”

“She’s getting ready in town and will be at the church by 10:45.” Getting onto the estate this morning would be too hard, so he’d rented her a room in Canterbury to get ready. She’d been on the road at six when he texted her. 

“— Love hard when there’s love to be had. Because perfect girls don’t exist, but there’s always one girl that’s perfect for you!” Fran’s voice cut loudly over the rest, and Ben and Col clapped.

Daff and Ant smiled at their siblings before turning back to each other. Oldest son, oldest daughter, united as always by responsibility. 

“You hear that, Fran’s going to say you’re not perfect in front of eight hundred people,” he teased again, tapping her with her foot. Nerves made him needy and childish.

Daff smiled indulgently. “Oh I’m hardly perfect but she is right, Si’s perfect for me.” She touched his arm. “Thank you for throwing this wedding, Ant. Perfect girls don’t exist, perfect relationships don’t exist, but this wedding truly is perfect, and I know that that’s because of you.” 

He coughed, a bit gruffly. “You’re welcome. Only doing what Dad would have wanted for you today.” 

She smiled, a bit watery. “He would be so proud of you , you know.” 

“Alright, we need to get Daphne into her dress, and then we’ll take a few photos. The cars for Simon’s party will be here at 10:20, the flower girls and page boys will leave at 10:30, and this crew will follow at 10:35.” The wedding planner, who Vi had seconded from Queen Eleanor’s staff, looked harried. “Chop, chop, everyone.” She glared at Benedict, still dressed in silk pajamas, and he quickly moved to go change. Everyone else seemed to realize that yes, actually, there would be a wedding today, and there was a perfect cacophony of stomping and noise. 

In the middle of it all, Ant looked around at his perfectly imperfect family, with all their foibles and excesses, demands and desires, hopes and dreams, and realized that there was no other place he’d rather be. He’d choose this, and them, every time. 

Somehow, at precisely 10:32, they made their way to the front steps, Daff devastatingly gorgeous in her custom McQueen and the rest of them not too bad. Four claret-and-grey Rolls Royces lined up perfectly; in the distance, he could see the three cars of kids and mums exiting the drive. The Queen had thoughtfully lent them a dozen cars from her fleet to ferry them all today; if one looked closely at the hood of the car, the ornament was her crest, not the company’s.

“Alright, Col, Hy, and Greg in the first — no fighting. Fran and El, you are in the second with me and Ben. And Daff and Ant, bring up the rear,” Mother announced. She tugged at Ant’s lapel. “ Do remember there will be photographers at the end. Fran and El will help Daphne with her dress but you need to scoot around and be in position to take her arm.”

He kissed her cheek. He probably knew the day’s schedule better than she did. “You did well, Mother,” he said, quite simply. 

“We’ll be alright,” Daff chimed from behind him, as they watched their siblings pile into cars. 

They were both quiet, as they got in; he assumed she was thinking about God and commitment and all that. Her skirts took up half the car, and he directly across from her and strove to make himself small so they wouldn’t wrinkle. It was a twenty-five minute drive from Aubrey Hall into Canterbury; the Cathedral had been their home church for seven hundred years. Nobody even knew how many generations had been wed, and buried, there. Brian Woolsley, the Archbishop, had done the funeral for Edmund and the baptism for Hy, six months apart. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Daff hummed, filling the silence. “When we’re back from our honeymoon —” They were going to Fiji for two weeks, followed by two weeks in Singapore  — “I’ll need you to help us with the sale of Clyvedon to a trust, properly. What you did with Aubrey Hall, it’s magnificent. I’d like to learn.” She squeezed his hand.

He turned to smile. “Happy to help.” 

She picked at a nail. “You know — none of us ever give you credit — you’ve kept us together remarkably well, Anthony. We’re all grown up. Happy. Thriving, even. Even Ben. Even Col. We all have our own lives, our own interests, our own ways in the world. Papa would be proud of you. I hope you know that.” 

He smiled, even though he felt small. “I do.” 

The words felt false, and Daff heard it. “ Truly. I mean it, Ant. I cannot … I cannot imagine what you went through … witnessing that. The last words, the last promises.”

“Daff, please don’t get emotional.” 

“I’m just … I’m just saying . You bore that all, for all of us. You didn’t replace Dad, but you were you, and that was exactly what we all needed. And I doubt anyone said thank you.” She fingered her bouquet. “I think I’ve only truly realized, in the last several weeks. Thinking about this marriage. What marriage means, what ‘till death us do part’ means. Which means nobody else, not even Mama, has thought you’ve given us. And what that took from you.” 

He was quiet. “Daff, it was my duty. I’m glad that, if … if that had to happen, if Papa had to die … that it was me that was there.” Fuck, he had to walk her down the aisle, in front of eight hundred people, the Queen, and God, in ten minutes. He couldn’t cry. He mustn’t. 

“I know.” She was quiet. “And we are grateful. It’s all a testament to you that we grew up so well. That we all found happiness and fulfillment. I don’t discount Mama of course but I do want you to know. That at least one of us sees what you carried.” She worried her lip. “I can’t imagine a better man to walk me down the aisle today. And I hope … I hope that you can breathe a little easier now, now that we’re all grown up.” 

He sighed, trying not to get short with her. “I’m glad that you all are doing well. Truly.”

“Excellent. I hope that you can now think of yourself a bit. Be selfish, maybe.” 

“Daff —” 

“What do you want , Ant?!?” The words burst forth from her. “Please. Tell me . You’ve made it possible for all of us to have whatever we want. And now, I’m about to get married, about to become a wife , eventually a mother, with the man I love, my best friend for all eternity. I’m going to start a charity, build a business, make good things happen in this broken world. A life that matters, a life I love, because of you. We are in a position to do so, because of you. So we at least owe you that.” 

He swallowed, staring ahead. They were entering Canterbury, thank fuck. 

Because the truth was, if he said what he wanted, if he wanted what he wanted, he was afraid he would never stop wanting things. Desiring things for himself, selfishly. That the want and the need and the desire would just pour from him, endlessly, a broken, never-sated hole. 

And if you wanted things, eventually, you would lose those things. 

“I want what I have, and I have what I want,” he said, levelly. “You were born to leave this family, and join another, Daphne. And I was born precisely for the role I am playing.” 

Endlessly. Even if it swallowed him. When it swallowed him. 

She sighed, shifting under all the layers of silk and lace and jewels. “I know I haven’t been the most welcoming about Siena,” she said. “I’m sorry, truly, if that’s been a barrier.” He contained a snort. “I just … I would like to see you happy , Ant. More than anything. Say the word, and I’ll take Siena shopping, go to dinner, welcome her to brunch one day. You’ve given so much to us, Ant — before it could be expected of you, while you were a boy, while you were grieving. It is honestly the least this family can do, to ensure you get whatever you want moving forward. And as soon as I’m back from my honeymoon, I will marshal all the troops, Ant.” She squinted at him. “So. Tell me. Are you happy , Ant?” 

The car rolled up to the cathedral before he could answer.

What a difference a month makes , Sophie thought, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing antique silver tray.

She had moved countries, for one. All of her best possessions were now dumped in a massive flat in Milan. She had cappuccinos every morning, aperols on piazzas every evening. A glamorous and delightful existence compared to the drudgery of London.

Kate was at peace, as a second point. At the Featherington wedding — the last they’d attended — her best friend had been with a boorish Oxbridge bro, and stressed beyond the breaking point, Not even her fabulous dress had stopped Kate from looking like she was at the brink of tears. But their time in the French Riviera had done Kate good, and tonight she looked ravishing in a black, silk, halter-necked, completely backless Prada gown. Quite literally, two tiny twists of gold chain that crossed at the dip in her spine were the only elements from her scapula to her sacrum. She was laughing on the arm of — of all people — movie star Michael Sterling. Soph knew they were only friends, but Michael was handsome and kind and Kate was officially over her haunted phase post-the Ant-(not-)breakup. Truly nothing more a girl could ask for her bestie.

Third, Daphne Bridgerton — now Her Grace Daphne Bridgerton Bassett, Eleventh Duchess of Hastings — threw a fucking amazing wedding. Earlier today, the Canterbury Cathedral had been absolutely pristine and perfect, practically dunked in late-summer flowers and filled with eight hundred perfectly dressed members of society, led of course by the Queen. Daphne’s McQueen dress, covered in Alencon lace and gorgeously off-the-shoulder, looked both timeless and modern, and Si looked devastatingly handsome and completely in love as she’d come down the aisle. Archbishop Woolsey brought everyone to tears, and all of the flower girls and Bridgersibs behaved. 

The dinner and cocktail hour were currently underway, inside Aubrey Hall proper. The ballroom had been set up and decorated with the understated grandeur of a state dinner, with the most gorgeous, six-foot floral arrangements Sophie had seen at a wedding, gala, or fashion show. Aubrey Hall positively glowed, actual candles and elaborate chandeliers provided ambiance as a jazz band that Simon had discovered in Havana welcomed guests in. In between the morning luncheon and the reception, Sophie had wandered down to the tent to take a peek: a see-through ceiling would provide perfect views of the sky as they danced, complemented by strings of lights, entwined with garlands of flowers, arcing above them.  The color palette was streamlined from five in the morning — white, gold, blue, pink, and purple — to a streamlined and glam white and purple for the evening. The Basset crest glowed lilac on the dance floor, and a stage was set for some of the hottest musical acts in the world. The cake was eight layers tall. The band was twelve pieces. The dinner was Michelin-starred. The ice sculptures had been designed by Ben. Everything was impeccable. 

Much, much better than Pippa Featherington’s sad-Russian-clown event. 

And fourth, Benedict Bridgerton seemed completely discombobulated by her … and she gave precisely zero fucks. 

Glorious.

Cocktail hour — in the Picture Room — was winding down, and the jazz band had switched to the posh equivalent of elevator music to nudge people toward dinner. Taking a long sip of her champagne, Sophie took her seat next to Ben, alongside Nick and Bex, Ant and Siena, and Daff and Si, at a short, rectangular table perpendicular to the columns of circular tables for the rest of the guests. Their shared name card was equidistant between their plates, and she settled warmly amongst the merry, slightly tipsy group, giving Ben’s hand a squeeze. 

“You look fabulous.” Bex, looking glam herself in a gold Jenny Peckham, gave her a once-over. “Vintage?” 

She preened. “Yes. Bob Mackie.” Her mother had walked off the runway and bundled up the dress in her bag — black velvet cut with teal and turquoise taffeta, selected to complement the Bridgertons’ tiresome insistence on blue — in 1985. 

The song ended and a sonorous bell clanged, pushing people toward their seats. Daff, her cinnamon hair glowing, was absolutely radiant in an Alunoko gown that appeared to be entirely made of glass beads to her waist, shoulders completely bare. The full-skirted ballgown shimmered in the candlelight, and Sophie smiled approvingly at the entire effect: Daff knew how to use fashion to make a statement, and the designer and the dress, in this moment, were a perfect example of her skill. Daff leaned up happily to kiss Si, snappy in a perfectly fitted white-tie tux, as they sat down. 

Ant, somewhat stiff, sat to Daff’s left. “You ready for your toast, brother?” Daff teased, flicking a piece of lint from his lapel. Siena, laughing gaily, leaned a tanned arm against his chair. “You’ve done so well all day, truly.” 

“I’m saving all my best material about both of you,” Ant returned smoothly. 

“Please, Bridge, just don’t fuck it up, don’t cry, and don’t mention Kloisters in ‘09,” Simon added. 

“What happened in Kloisters in ‘09?” Sophie whispered to Ben, wide-eyed and intrigued. Milan was lovely, but she felt truly at home here.

“ Terrible things.” Ben smirked, eyes hooded. She grinned, giving him a light kiss. 

“Seriously.” She leaned toward Ant, merrily waggling her eyebrows. “Whatcha gonna talk about, Ant?” 

He smiled, a little indulgent. “Only what you lot all need to hear.” 

The band finished a glide on the saxophone, and the band leader told a few jokes as the crowd settled throughout the two-thousand square foot ballroom. Finally, he announced, “And now, it is my delight to introduce our host for the evening, and the brother of the bride, Lord Anthony Bridgerton!” 

The applause as Ant smoothly took the mic was deafening. He looked sure and confident, slightly understated but absolutely in command — she understood why Kate had fallen so hard for the infuriating, hardheaded Surly Anthony. He was impossible to turn away from.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to my family’s home, Aubrey Hall.” He was smooth, confident, not bound by notes at all. “My mother, my siblings and I are delighted to welcome you to our ancestral home on the happy occasion of our dear sister Daff’s wedding, and thank you for coming to celebrate this day with us.” He nodded at the remainder of the family, just to their right, and the crowd roared warmly. “Now, I must say my toast is also slightly complicated because, while I am here to talk about my darling sister, I am also — despite what our dear future King Nicholas II will tell you — the groom’s absolute best friend in the world. For both your best friend and your sister, I imagine that it must be nice to meet a boyfriend or girlfriend, at a nice dinner when everyone’s on their best behavior. Learn the rest as you go along. Unfortunately for my sister, I was with her beloved when he nearly got arrested in Mallorca at seventeen. And unfortunately for my best friend, his new wife once threw a shoe at me at the ripe age of eight, and left a scar.” The crowd laughed, predictably, as he tapped the spot on his hairline with the faint scar. “So I have a bit of a dilemma: do I go the heartfelt route, as I would with a sister? Or do I edge in a bit of naughtiness, talk about that one time in Kloisters , to my best mate?” He pretended to ponder as people laughed.

“Seriously, what happened in Kloisters?” Soph whispered to Ben.

“Hookers and blow and cops. Utterly banal.” He slung an arm around her chair, delighted as he gawked at his brother’s toast. 

“The truth is, I take being head of this family seriously, so I must err just on the right side of proper. But I will try to cover both roles now, as best I can. It is, after all, my duty to both of them.” He cleared his throat, and his eyes looked rough. “It’s a funny word, duty, for the lot in this room. We all have one. This one —” he yanked a nod to Nick — “honestly has quite a lot of it, God have mercy on us all. Mine is lesser, and closer.” He cleared his throat. “But it’s nevertheless worth contemplating.”

“Where is he going?” Sophie asked. Surely he would not take the opportunity for a lecture. 

“No fucking clue.” Ben replied. Bex raised an eyebrow in a silent question, a lip between her teeth. 

“Duty, of course, implies obligation: one must do this, one must do that. A rather bullying concept. But the reality is that, but for rare exceptions, there is no forcing mechanism with duty. You won’t be arrested. You won’t lose money, or esteem. But neither does one earn top marks for doing their duty. In fact, you mightn’t get any reaction. Because duty is about  doing your partner’s dishes even when they ate dinner without you. It’s picking up milk on the way home. It’s letting the slow driver go instead of cutting them off. It’s going to the party you’d rather skip. It is moral, communal, an act of service. Duty is simply … what we owe to each other. It is, at its most distilled, the act of love, in community. Love, in action. It is a choice.” He cleared his throat. “You may not always like it, it may sometimes be utterly boring, but it’s always a choice.To do it, when you could not do it.  And that … that choosing someone, or someones, every day … that’s something incredibly beautiful.” 

He fumbled a bit then, went a bit breathless as his fingers went sticky on his notecard, and Sophie followed the path of his eyes: Straight to Kate. She was seated next to Michael; from the way she was suddenly playing with her napkin, they’d locked eyes. Soph poked Ben and whispered, “Look.” In response he tightened his arm around her neck and kissed her temple. 

“My father died sixteen years ago, as many of you know. He took his duty to his family seriously. But it never felt heavy, because it always manifested with such joy. He loved doing his duties. Teaching us how to tie our shoes, or shoot, or read, or play Pall Mall. Dancing Mum around the kitchen alone after a party. Wiping our tears, organizing plays, hearing our stories — his favorite time of day was dinner, just us talking. Just him getting to know us.” His eyes looked wet, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “When Daff was seven, she fell learning how to ride, and declared that she simply wasn’t going to learn. Dad hated that, hated that it was happening out of fear. He didn’t care if we didn’t like riding, even though he loved it, but he wasn’t going to have her stop doing something because she was scared. So every day he went with her to the pasture to feed the horses. It took probably two months of giving them apples until she’d get on, and another four until she’d ride alone. And then, she chose ballet. Got serious there and had no time or interest. Dad could’ve considered that time lost. But they meant Daff got to choose, and also, he got six months of time just with her.” He shook his head. “Not a waste. Never a waste.” 

He looked down at Daff and Simon. Daff’s eyes were glistening, and she pressed two fingers gently to her lips — a kiss of benediction. Ant smiled gently at her.  “There’s a version of this toast where I tell you all that Daff and Si are a great romance, destined to withstand the sands of time, perhaps worthy of a poem. And I do think they are, and they will. They’re well-matched, equals in every way, and they challenge each other. Si has brought out Daff’s confidence, and Daff has brought out Si’s laugh. They enjoy each other; they’re happier together than I have seen either apart. But I do not do poetry; Daff once said I was more of a man of action. And why I know they’ll make it is their actions toward one another. The kindness they show each other, that pushes them each to grow. The consideration of each other’s opinions when they’re making a decision. The forgiveness of their — many, trust me, many — flaws. The way Si will swing by her work just to walk her home and hold her bag. Or how he’ll order her favorite dessert if the two of us are out, just to bring it home to her. The way Daff packs him energy bars when she goes to his football matches, because he never remembers. The way she gives him an out, without judgment, when he’d rather not go to another event of hers. Some see love. I see the action, the choice, behind it. The selflessness, day in and day out, of plain-old caring for someone, someone who is imperfect and flawed and just as messy as you are. How hard that can be. How beautiful that can be. Just the simple concept of two people trying to build something perfectly imperfect, together.” He stopped talking, again, his eyes fuzzy on the horizon. 

“I think he’s close to tears,” Ben whispered to her, wondrous and gentle and delighted. 

“Shut up, this is lovely.” Something had shifted in her own chest, a hard and real weight either lifting or shifting. Who would have thought that Anthony Bridgerton was some secret romantic, had some insider truth and understanding about love and relationships that she had never considered? 

“So today Daff and Si stood in front of the Archbishop, and we are all here today, to celebrate not their love, but their commitment. To do our duty to them, supporting them as they embark on this vast and wonderful adventure together. We have weddings in a church because there is no greater or more radical act of faith than this. There they promised to bear witness to their hardest moments, to constantly act on their love in big and small ways, and to revel in their joys, together.” He held up his glass. “It is a bit strange, to give a toast about marriage to a younger sister when you’ve no personal experience, but I truly cannot be prouder of Daff and Si — who through many examples have seen the good, the bad, and the heartbreak of love and marriage — for understanding that and still choosing to get married, choosing to choose each other forever, choosing to love, choosing this duty toward one another, choosing a life that suits them both. I wish you all the best and as many joys as you can fit, and I wish you the support of each other at all other times. To Daff and Si!” 

“Hear hear,” they all chorused. 

“A little dicey at times, but ultimately very Ant,” Ben summarized. “Well done, brother,” he said as Ant sat. 

“Truly wonderful, thank you Ant,” Daff said, tears magnifying her eye makeup. 

“Of course,” Ant said thickly. “Love you, Daff.” 

Later, much later — after one of the most delicious dinners of her life, after Sir Paul sang Maybe I’m Amazed for the first dance — she and Ben swayed idly to the up-and-coming boy band (the next Only Way, according to the mags) hired for the rest of the reception. As they crooned You Are the Best Thing, she abruptly said, “Ben — you know this is it -it, right?” Her voice was thick with emotion, but she needed to say it. To call it. It had been the slowest and sweetest of goodbyes. 

He looked startled, then resigned. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I do.” She tucked her head into his shoulder. It was always easier for them to be honest when they were dancing — loosely connected, their own thing but together. “I’m not going to lie, after insisting I would not, I was halfway trying to convince you to stay by inviting you.” 

Maybe in a different life, she would have been happy with what he could offer. Or he could choose her, and a life of joint namecards, and be happy about it. “I want what Ant described. What Simon and Daff have.”

“I know,” he whispered gently. “Trust me, I do. And I want you to have what you want.” 

“What do we do next?” It was a stupid question, but she truly did not know. She had spent ten years entwined with Benedict — his muse and his fling and his better half. He had been a source of strength and comfort and space to become who she could be. She didn’t know how to be a person without him in her life. 

He tightened his grip on her. “We keep dancing till the music ends.”

From the edge of the dance floor, Ant scanned the reception, carefully let out an exhale. Daff and Si looked happier than he’d ever seen them, a million guests greeting them; his mother was vivacious and chatty among all the other mamas; his youngest siblings were laughing and dancing with Lady Danbury’s older grandchildren. Fran had brought John and seemed content with that choice, though El was still making her go off and chat up women to figure out if they were gay for her. On the dance floor Ben and Sophie seemed a little maudlin, in the margins Col and Pen seemed to be avoiding each other, but they had all grown up. They were all doing better than he could have imagined sixteen years ago.

And he truly didn’t know what to do next.

So he hovered. 

“Mate, you know I could have you locked in the Tower for having a better speech than me,” Nick said, sliding beside him. 

He snorted. “Hardly the first time I’ve bested you.” 

The toast had been well-received, frankly embarrassingly so, given that he’d finished scribbling it onto napkins during the cocktail hour, as  thoughts of his father and Simon’s elemental comment and the sermon on faith in an uncertain world swirled. He was proud of it, felt it fit him and communicated what he intended to this crowd, but the enthusiasm was discomfiting, though like many of his feelings this weekend, he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

“Where’s Siena?” 

“Talking to Cressy and Helen and Princess Alice of Denmark.” He nodded in their direction.

“You two are … good?” 

“I think we could be.” He smiled. 

Nick nodded, and then finally blurted out, “Have you ever … talked to someone, Ant?” 

He stiffened. “I’m talking to someone right now.” 

“I mean —” he lowered his voice — “a therapist . Or a psychologist .” 

He snorted. “I’m not American, and neither are you.” 

“No, but I did marry one, after eight years of telling her I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be married. And then bailing on our first New Year’s to go party at Annabelle Truesdale’s.” An ex of Nick’s. “Bex made it pretty clear what I needed to do. And then I got there and realized, hey, maybe not understanding why I act the way I act sometimes can be a problem for those around me.” 

Ant tried not to groan. “I just threw my baby sister a fifteen-million pound wedding, I don’t think the people around me should have a problem with me.” 

“And yet you’re over here not enjoying this party or your best friend or your sister, just glaring,” Nick said pointedly. He pulled out his phone and thumbed at something. In his tux, Ant’s phone beeped. “I just texted you Dr. Kep’s info.” Bex, across the dance floor, crooked her finger lasciviously at Nick, and he started to walk off. “Tell him Steve sent you!” he yelled as he practically ran to his wife.  

The music shifted, as the boy band he’d hired broke into, of all things, Wrecking Ball . He started to wander through the crowds at the edge of the dance floor, pushing past Freddie teaching Her Majesty the Wobble, nodding at people and hoping he didn’t get pulled into conversation. Suddenly, though, there was a split in the action, and he was directly in front of Kate. 

He’d seen her earlier in the church, a distant blob in a purple fascinator. And then again inadvertently during the reception, next to Lady Maritzia and with her arm around her actor. But this was the first time up close, seeing how perfectly her black silk gown flowed over her, noticing how low the back dipped. It was conservative in front and completely sexy in the back, a fitting silhouette, he thought. Her makeup was simple, just some liner around her eyes, and she had her mother's bangles on one arm. And her hair was wildly curly again. She turned, and made eye contact. 

Something unlocked, deep within him. Space and time shifted, puzzle pieces locked together. Complicated feelings became almost laughably clear. He exhaled a soft oh as it washed over him. 

As he realized, at that moment, that he had loved her. 

Of course he had loved her. 

And — just as simply, just as clearly — he realized that he’d lost her. 

And. 

He realized what the right thing to do was. 

“Hey Sharma,” he said, voice rough. 

“Hi there.” Her voice was easy, her manner relaxed. “Great party you’ve thrown, Bridgerton.” Her eyes flicked down. “And, um. Great toast. Daff was really affected.” 

“Thanks,” he said, still staring stupidly at her. “I’m, ah, keen to chat. If you’re free?” 

She raised a wary eyebrow. “Ant, honestly, after last time —”

“Not … not that kind of chat,” he insisted, quickly. “But I have … things to say. Things I’d like the opportunity to say. If you’ll have me, of course.” 

Finally, she nodded, and they started back to the house at a careful distance. “I saw you brought Michael Sterling. No Tom, eh?”

She shook her head, giving him a small, slightly amused smile, like she knew that he’d be smug. “I’ve been … examining patterns that really started in New York, how I’ve lived my life. And trying to break them.”

He paused. “I’ve no idea what your New York life was like,” he confessed gently. 

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Right. I … I dated a lot as a distraction. Tom was … just that. So I’m choosing me, now.” 

She was truly in it with Sterling, then. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

There were people lingering in the reception halls, and so he inadvertently, stupidly, led her up to the library, before catching the look on her face. “Sorry, I —”

“It’s fine,” she reassured him. She didn’t look pleased, but she wasn’t running for the hills. She perched on the arm of the couch, so he sat on the edge of the desk, a respectful six feet away. “How’ve you been?” 

“I’m … alright.” He smiled. It was good to simply be in the same room again.

She picked at her bangle. “Still going after what you want?” 

“I think. Just figuring out the particulars.” He tapped his nail on his father’s watch, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say without making it seem like he wanted to disrupt either of their lives. “Kate, I owe you an apology. I’m truly sorry for how I acted. How I treated you.” 

Her jaw dropped. “Oh?” 

He nodded, trying to search for words. “I was terribly harsh, and my phrasing was … just bloody awful. Starting that conversation right after Edwina lost and I just found out … You didn’t deserve that timing, or to find out about Siena the way that you did the next week. It was thoughtless, and selfless. You deserved a lot more, frankly, and I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you.” 

She blinked with surprise, for what felt like at least thirty seconds and finally said, “Thank you.” Then she cleared her throat. “What I said in Paris … I’m sorry too. I can be rash, and quick to judge, when I feel cornered.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “Not exactly untrue, though.” 

“Nor was what you said,” she pointed out, a bit gentle and rueful. 

“Oh no, also all very earned,” he said lightly, and she chuckled. “I do feel … when we were operating under that delusional pact, we, uh, focused quite a bit on the ‘benefits’ side of the deal. Sexual and otherwise,” he started. “Less so the friends .” He cleared his throat. “And, uh, it wasn’t until after that I realized how dear and trusted of a friend you became, and how stupidly the benefits had wrecked all that. And … I missed my friend,” he said simply. “I missed being your friend.” 

She bit her lip. “I miss my friend too,” she finally said. “But Ant, you were the one who said no contact. That you missed the benefits too much.” 

“I missed the friendship more,” he said, his conviction dawning on him as he said it. “Listen, we both want different things. We know that. And you said we can’t go back. We know that too. But if I happened to show up at the docks at five-thirty on Tuesday —” 

“— I wouldn’t say no to a race,” she finished. “I haven’t rowed since before … everything, though. So you may beat me.”

He smirked, just a little. They were both so out of practice. “Same. We’ll have to build back up together.” He stepped up to stand. 

“Guess so,” she said with a smile. Then, tentatively, she stepped close to kiss his cheek. The scent of lilies still lingered. “Thank you.” 

She left first, he followed a beat after. As he was shutting the door, he noticed Daff, heading to change into her second , shorter reception dress. She looked toward the stairs, then back at him, and grinned, even going so far as to give him a thumb’s up. 

He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but the upward twist of his lips eventually settled into a smile back. 

Chapter Text

Some infinities are bigger than other infinities — “The Fault in Our Stars” 

“We shan’t make it on time,” Ant muttered, positively gripping the door handle of the Jag. “Speeding is hardly necessary.” 

Kate flicked her eyes over to him, snorting slightly. “We shall make it,” she replied, adding a bit of a posh clip to her words to underscore how completely ridiculous he sounded. 

He rolled his eyes back. “And if we do , it’s only because you drove like a maniac bank robber outrunning MI-6.”

“And if we don’t —” she swerved around a loitering Uber — “it’s because you worried like a ninny.” 

“Just remember —” He winced as she gunned through a light. “That it’s not your car.” 

“Just remember that I am getting you to dinner on time,” she countered, with a smirk. Safely through the light, she cut her eyes back at him, and they both laughed.

It had been — perhaps unsurprisingly — entirely too easy to slide back into a friendship with Lord Anthony Edmund Richard Bridgerton. Since Daff’s wedding two weeks ago, they’d resumed morning rows thrice weekly. They were both desperately out of shape, and the accountability had honestly been helpful. But soon coffees were tagged on to rowing outings; then, last week, she’d gotten brunch with the Bro-gertons, all of whom seemed quite shaggy. And today, because they went to row at 3 PM instead of their usual 6 AM — she spent the evening at her parents’, and he had to prep for a conversation with the board on his promotion— she was now racing his Jag through the streets of Chelsea toward KP, where Bex was throwing a dinner party this evening.

What had been surprising though, at least to her, was how easy reigniting the friendship was. She knew that she still had feelings for Ant. She suspected, given the glances that she sometimes caught, that he did as well. And they were both over-careful, and a little guarded, in arranging their interactions with one another — certainly she made sure she never touched him. Conversationally they stuck to a list of safe topics: gossip about their mutual friends, work, family, trash talk while rowing. 

But she could admit that they’d simply fitted back together, with very little angst. Neither of them were particularly acrimonious or dramatic sorts, but she was overwhelmingly glad to be rowing with him again, hanging out a few times a week without any hope or expectation or attendant emotional torture. There was a simple, predictable joy in his laughter, his taunts, his competitive nature, his reactions to her jabs. For how disorienting their time sleeping together had been, there was something anchoring now in their friendship. Conversations quickly slipped into honesty: He knew contours about her falling-out with Edwina, she’d listened to his worries about the board vote. It was a friendship . The steadiest, purest thing about her London life right now. 

Which wasn’t too hard because the rest of it, frankly, felt a little too wide-open. 

Sophie was off to Italy, Edwina was still in the States and barely speaking to her, Tom was back in Haiti. They hadn’t spoken since St. Tropez but as a courtesy, Kate had made a donation to his charity as he departed — it only felt kind. She had found her footing at work again, using the August holiday to recommit to work, catch up on her caseload, and study for her SQEs, the exams she needed to take to fully transfer her New York license to the UK. She hung out with Michael, often, and Ben, less frequently, but still regularly. She went to her parents for  dinner on Fridays but they insisted she otherwise live her life: no doctor’s appointments, or bills, or general life management. 

She was clear, grounded, less anxious, certainly. She got more sleep, drank less wine and Scotch, went to yoga in the mornings she did not row, even read a book for pleasure. But it was strange to be so untethered, even though it was all she had ever professed to want: She had always enjoyed proving a point, and there was something so natural and comforting in lines to color inside or barriers to push against. The lack of clear boundaries, of calls on her time, left too many hours to think about her desires and her goals, to wonder about the genetic tests, to ask herself what are my options . The absence of burdens was not the presence of purpose.

“Three till,” she crowed triumphantly a few minutes later, as they slid up to the police gate. “Your ID, please. And I’ll take a tenner for being right.” 

With a groan, he yanked out his wallet, and slapped both in her outstretched hand, his fingers almost mindlessly caressing hers.

They both pulled back immediately. 

“Right, park along the side, you know where, Lord Bridgerton,” the guard said, barely glancing at their IDs. 

Kate had only been to Kensington Palace three times, twice for poker night and once to help Bex pack for their Kenya trip, and the massive grounds still gave her pause. The palace looked like an ordinary, sprawling brick Georgian manor more than anything out of Grimms’, which should have given it a sense of comforting normality. But it had been chopped into at least a dozen apartments to hold probably twenty of Nick’s relatives, all of whom wandered around the compound cantankerously. The knowledge that she could take out some twenty-ninth-in-line Duke made the place extremely intimidating.

She showed her ID again to the guard at the Clock Court Gate — Ant’s first trip was with his parents to meet baby Prince Nick when Ant was thirteen months old, so he got waved right on in — before being let into the brick courtyard and ringing the bell at the modest double doors to 1A. She straightened her Veronica Beard jacket over her dress from The Kooples one last time. 

“You made it!” Bex exclaimed as she opened the door. She was dressed down in jeans and an oversized button-down under a wide-necked sweater, the baby on her hip. “Oh, thank you.” 

“Of course,” Ant said, with a wan smile. Today was the eighteenth Emma-versary, as the date was simply known by the boys: the day their mother had been lost to them, forever. Bex had arranged all their favorite things throughout the day, not as a distraction but as something to look forward to. It was culminating in a small dinner party: Ant, Siena, Ben, Col, Michael, Kate, two married couple-friends of theirs from college, and Bex’s twin sister and her husband. The Bassetts were still in Singapore, or they’d be there as well. 

Kate, following Bex and Ant, wound familiarly through the house to the living room, musing that the truly wealthy separated themselves simply with the amount of expensive furniture they put in their ‘informal’ rooms. 

Everyone else was already there, around said expensive antique furniture. Ant loped off next to Siena and gave her a kiss; Kate plopped down in between Ben and Michael, pecking both of them on the cheek. The mood in the room was warm but subdued; Freddie, who’d been barely thirteen when everything happened, was the worst for the wear. She couldn’t help but notice, with the exception of Col and Michael, that this gathering was mostly Nick’s friends. She felt briefly sorry for Freddie. “Everything OK?” Michael asked as he put an arm around her. His eyes darted, just barely, toward Ant. 

“Of course,” she replied, and it was true. “Beat Ant at rowing, beat Ant at a bet, now with you all, so never better.” 

“The overall record still stands 35-32 in my favor,” Ant called from across the room. Siena had thrown her legs over his lap, his fingers were mindlessly in her hair. 

“So at that rate, you’ve got one week left of being champion, eh,” Michael chortled. Even Freddie smiled at that. 

“Alright,” Bex, in full Duchess of Clarence hostess mode, said with a clap of her hands. The Lyons emerald sparkled on her finger. “Thank you all for making the time tonight, and for getting here on time.” Kate let out a very intentional, triumphant hmph loud enough for Ant to hear, and he made a face. “And for not picking an argument in the middle of my speech.” Bex cut them both a look. “Anyways — this is a significant day, and I’m grateful that Nick and Fred have all you wonderful, insane people in their lives.” She cast her eyes around the room. “Tonight is supposed to be fun, and something to look forward to — make the date easier. And I thought, what is more fun than a themed party and a competition?”

“Bex, no ,” Bea, one of the college friends, groaned. “Bex, many things are more fun than a themed party.” Her wife, Gemma, patted her thigh comfortingly. 

“Not many things are more fun than competition though,” Ant pointed out, and Bea nodded in agreement there. 

Bex plowed on through their chatter. “I thought about casinos, but you lot play poker too often. And I thought about an escape room, but I was afraid of locking the entire line of succession in a room with people as competitive as Ant and Bea. So instead, we are starting off with a Big British Baking Tent- style competition.” A mix of groans and shrieks emanated from the collective. “Come on, then.” 

With looks ranging from curious to trepidatious, they all followed her into the kitchen, which was a lot of stainless steel and looked more suited for a state dinner. Right in the middle of the kitchen, fourteen sets of six cupcakes were set up, with icing and fondant and sprinkles and all sorts of decorations. 

And beloved Baking Tent judges Mary Cherry and Peter Hollywood were behind the counter.

“This is the greatest surprise ever,” Freddie blurted out, his jaw dropping. He turned to his brother with a smirk. “I’m going to absolutely demolish you.” 

“You have fat fingers and zero patience.” Nick snorted. “You’re bloody on.” 

Kate exchanged a look and a headshake with Ben, and grabbed a cone of icing. 

Mary and Peter tried to explain the rules — they had thirty minutes, and all that — but they had already dived in, falling quickly into two categories: Those who absolutely gave zero shits, and those who cared far too much. The zero-shits group — which included Col, Michael, Siena, Bex, and most of the college friends — all cut out pretty early, after Col started an icing fight. The many-shits group — the Wales brothers, Ant and Kate, Ben, and two of the college friends, Bea and Gaz — continued to plow on as everyone else drank and munched cupcakes. 

Kate decided the best strategy to win would be to have a theme, and she was concentrating on making little Tube signs with different station names on each cupcake, when Gaz, a barrister, asked, “How is studying going, Kate?” 

She snorted. “Relatively straightforward, just annoying, as it won’t get me to a bench.I billed fifty-five hours a week in New York and here I can’t even argue in Court. And I need to keep up all my continuing ed in New York so I can argue internationally.” 

“You could go qualify as a barrister?” Ant, who was making football cupcakes to her right, suggested. “If Gaz can do it, you can in your sleep.” Gaz threw a face at Ant, though they all knew it was true.

“Solicitor will let me slide through with one easy qualifying exam; barrister could be an extra two years of apprenticing.” She bit her lip in concentration. “If I go back to the States and practice for another year with some serious court appearances, I could probably lobby for a barrister appointment. Right now I don’t have enough transferable experience.” She had gotten the LLM to avoid this, but returned earlier than she expected. “Your legal system is hopeless.” 

“Yours?” Ant snorted. “You sing God Save the Queen and drink tea like the rest of us.” 

“I drink chai .” They shot each other a smile. 

“You can’t possibly be considering leaving, can you? Not with your father and sister.” Ant was extremely focused on his decorating. 

She carefully wrote VAUXHALL on a strip of blue fondant. 

“Two minutes!” Mary Cherry yelled over the cacophony of their drunk, challenge-abandoning friends. 

In the end, while Gaz clearly had the superior decorating skills — he’d made a little Paddington suite, complete with marmalade sandwiches made out of fondant on one — and Ben’s were absolute works of watercolor art, the Princes got joint Brightest Baker awards, handed out by Mary and Peter. Nick gave Bex a kiss full on the lips, smearing buttercream on her cheeks, and Ant held out his palm to Kate for a very formal high-five. She split her cupcake with Michael as Siena ran a finger through Ant’s football one, and licked icing off the digit. Kate complimented Freddie for his Christmas-wreath cupcakes, earning a haunted, appreciative smile. 

The party migrated to the dining room, turning convivial and a touch rowdy over a half-dozen too many bottles of wine. After several hours of eating and drinking, they made their way back to the living room, with aspirations to play Charades, and Kate popped back to the kitchen to grab the rest of the cupcakes. Of course, some member of the staff had neatly set them away, and so she had to dig through the cupboards. 

“If Edwina could see me now,” she muttered, slamming a breadbox shut. She took a sip of her wine and stared at the remaining cabinets. 

“Oh good,” a small voice said from behind her. “You’re still here.” She turned to see Siena, looking rather tiny in a black silk tank, jeans, and an oversized, cropped camel-colored cardigan. She had a pleasant, closemouthed smile on her face, but she was twisting her rings and fingers tightly.

“Yes. Hello, Siena,” she replied, trying to smile. She thought she’d avoided her pretty well so far. 

“I’m sorry you didn’t win. Your cupcakes were clearly superior, at least to Freddie’s.” She switched to scratching her head. “So! I wanted to let you know — I’m throwing Ant a surprise birthday party, on the third.” Ant’s birthday was September fourth, and he would hate a surprise party, Kate thought idly but immediately. “I’m sure he’d like you there, so I was hoping that you could make it.” 

She took a breath in, but couldn’t let it out. Finally, she managed a tight smile. “I’m going to Italy that weekend. To visit Sophie.” She made a note to book tickets exactly when she got him.

“Oh.” Siena deflated slightly. With a nod, she turned to exit, but then stopped and faced Kate again. “You know — I want you to know that I know you and Ant … were close. Dated. And I know you’re friends. And … I don’t mind that friendship. Just to clear that up.” Siena blinked once, a calm and clear look on her face. 

“Oh,” Katie replied, a little dumbly. “Great, then.” 

“I think it’s good, actually,” Siena plowed on. Kate would think that this was some sort of power play, cornering her in the kitchen like this, but there was an awkward rush to Siena’s words that said it wasn’t. “And yes, I’m aware that he cares about you deeply. His eyes don’t shut up when he looks at you, honestly.” 

This was getting ridiculous. She shifted to exit. “I should be getting back, really.” 

“That — that wasn’t meant to come off threatening.” Siena rolled her eyes with a bit of a laugh, deeply self-conscious. “Can we just … talk?” 

The earnestness made her pause. “Maybe, though that sounds like something you’d say if you were trying to hide a threat,” Kate pointed out wryly. 

“Perhaps I’m just a bit too nervous. Christ, I’m doing this all wrong. I just … I thought that you might stop being friends with him, or kind of … shift to something very superficial, if our relationship progresses, and I … I think the friendship is good for him. I don’t want you to stop being friends with him on my account.”

“Our friendship is not … I would never …”

“I have no worries about Ant. I trust him,” Siena cut in. Her voice was smooth, confident, and Kate realized that she wasn’t unsure of the relationship, but specifically this conversation. “He cares too much about his honor. He is too honorable. I’m not jealous, I’m not concerned, that was my whole message.” She took a breath, then tried to restart. “I’m not a sociopath , of course, but I’m very aware that Ant has many practical reasons to date me. I am —” she cast her eyes toward the door, ensuring that nobody was near. “I’m not a twenty-year-old expecting my fairy-tale prince. I’m eyes wide open, here.”  

Her jaw dropped. “So you know he wants to get married as quickly as humanly possible?” Kate asked, astonished. She had honestly expected him to hedge a bit.  

“Of course. It’s no great love, but most aren’t. If my career doesn’t pick back up — which doesn’t seem likely at this rate — and we can figure out how to eke out a life together, and it’s one where he doesn’t resent me … why wouldn’t I marry him, if he asks? One door closes, another one opens. Right?” 

There was nothing arrogant or calculating in her voice as she quoted The Sound of Music ; it sounded as if she was genuinely still feeling toward the best decision, but was hardly ashamed of her pragmatism. She seemed to want to make Ant happy, to find a tenable middle ground for them both. Siena was smart, Kate realized. And determined. If Ant truly wanted the life he said he did, he could do far worse than whatever he was arranging with Siena. 

It just made Kate unbearably sad for both of them. 

All of them. 

“Because you should love the person you marry,”  Kate said, her voice rising unintentionally. 

Siena looked at her. “Have you ever thought about marriage? I mean, really considered the institution?” 

Kate, who had not really, stayed silent. 

“Marriage, love — it’s not some neat, static thing. I’ve spent years singing about love, packaging it into eight lines and a good hook. I love love. But it’s … not the same in reality, is it? Chased it for a decade. Got it once. And it didn’t fall apart because there wasn’t enough love — it fell apart because he loved coke more than he loved me.” Her eyes were hazy, fixed on a memory. For the first time in the conversation, she seemed mournful. “And so I decided I had to stop loving him.” 

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing she could say, trapped in a palace kitchen. 

“Wanting things, feeling things, gets you far, but it doesn’t change what the universe will hand you. You still have to play the hand you’re dealt, and play it well. Things, even love, don’t just happen .” She flicked her eyes back to Kate. “You make them happen.” 

“So that’s all this is to you? A hand to play?” 

“Absolutely not. My father …” She swallowed. “My father loved my mother, and he hit her, before he left when I was five. My brothers love their wives, and they blame the government’s economic policies for their inability to provide.”

Kate stiffened, just a bit. “I don’t know you well, but that hardly seems comparable.”

She shrugged. “Because I’ve made it so. Ant is kind, handsome, funny. We’re compatible enough, we get along well enough. It might not make a song, but it could make a very good life.” She jutted out her chin, determinedly. Hopefully. 

“He’s lost.” But the words were fading in their bite. If this were court, Kate would be losing. 

“I don’t think he quite is,” Siena mused. “He may not know why he wants what he wants — he may not know how to admit it — but he’s not the man I dumped in March. He wants a family, a home. Do you really think the oldest of eight would not want kids?” She straightened. “ All I wanted to say — there’s no need to fear me, and certainly no reason to pity me. I certainly don’t fear or resent you. I do care for Ant, despite what you all may think of me, and I’m glad that there are other people in his life that care for him. He deserves that. That’s all.”  She pulled the tray of cupcakes from the upper level of a cabinet, and turned back to Kate. “Anyways. We should be getting back then, eh.” 

She walked out of the room, and Kate was left standing there, holding her glass of wine. 

The flat in Tottenham was drab, and quite sticky, Ben noted as he wandered inside. He stepped gingerly to avoid ruining his crocodile-skin Gucci brogues. Even the partygoers’ outfits were varying shades of grey and beige, and the colors contributed to an impression that was strangely, grimly intense. It was a young gathering, mostly grad students who had been at some environmental protest-or-other with El earlier in the day, and they smelled like idealism and poverty. 

And not like, attractive , starving-artist poverty. 

“Ben!” El emerged from the haze of khaki, dressed positively formally in a green blazer and crop top. Truly, this was ghastly. “What are you doing here?” Her face darkened. “Ant didn’t send you here, did he?”

“What? Absolutely not.”

“Good.” She sniffed. “He texted me about photos. Expressing Concern, about protesting in front of oil executives’ houses.” 

Ben struggled not to roll his eyes — as overbearing and boorish as Ant could be, their lifestyles were collectively dependent on the company’s profits and certain societal institutions (institutions Ben liked ) enduring. “No. I checked your phone’s location tracker, and Fran said you were at some house party. “

“Ah.” She softened. “Is everything ok?” 

He gestured around, mildly aggrieved. He had been working before he got worried. “I’m here to ask that of you . Your texts sounded a bit hopeless.” He would not come to Tottenham, to a socialist party, without some level of concern for his favorite sister. 

“Ah.” She cast her eyes down. “Let’s go out to the garden, eh.” 

The ‘garden,’ maddeningly, wasn’t some private affair; all the split-up houses in the courtyard backed into it. There was a shared, pathetic playset; they took seats on the two functional swings. 

“So,” Ben asked, brandishing his phone with a flourish, “care to discuss why you —” He pretended to fiddle with pretend glasses — “ I ju st don’t understand what the meaning of all *this* is , and All I want is a life of purpose, not parties ?” He stared at Eloise.

She twisted her swing up, then released both the swing and a heavy sight.  “I may have been over-dramatic. And a tiny bit high,” she admitted. 

He sighed. “I did not leave my studio for this type of avoidance.” 

“I know it’s a sweaty party, alright,” she said. She bit her lip. “And I know Ant had a point.” Ben raised an eyebrow, and she finally burst out, “You know, I’m positive that Col and Pen were still sleeping together till Daff’s wedding. Plus I think Pen is … nevermind.” She flicked hair out of her face. “And Fran is back with John. Daff is off on her honeymoon. Do you ever just feel like, no matter what you do, you don’t fit in? Everyone has a thing and you don’t ?” 

“I — Yes,” he replied. “In this family? Even now. That’s why I have my career, my art.” 

“So that’s where you belong?” 

“That’s where I’m free ,” he corrected. “But it feels that way because it’s rebellion, not reaction.” Ben knew how short a life could be; how quickly your world would absolutely change without you wanting it to. He had vowed at sixteen to make every day count, to live unabashedly in the moment, to create something beautiful every day. To be unafraid of change by knowing himself and living on his terms. His family could cluck and call him an irresponsible hedonist, but nothing about the future scared him because he was fully himself, in every situation. 

El … El knew what she was not , but rarely what she was.

“I thought I was doing that.” She spun again. “But I don’t fit here more than in Mayfair.”  

“Do you want to fit in here? Or do you think this is just where you should go?” He swallowed.

“Both,” she mused. 

“Listen. I know you’ll hate me saying this but you’re young, El. You have more time to explore. You just have to be brave enough to be comfortable in your skin.” 

“How do you know when it’s rebellion or reaction?” she asked. 

He kicked at a clump of dirt, considering. “Rebellion will feel free. You’ll be whole even as you evolve. Reaction will make you feel confused and overwhelmed.” His shoe was dirty, and he crossed his leg to clean it. “Though it’s hard. I’m feeling a bit flummoxed by change right now as well.” He had not fully processed the thought until he said it out loud.

“Sophie?” 

“Yeah,” he admitted. She’d been gone for almost a month, he’d reckoned. He’d had lovers leave before: Gwen to Paris; Henry to Berlin; plenty to New York. And he’d always expected to be sad. But the string has not snapped at all, and he hadn’t expected to miss her in a hopelessly-hetero way: Getting her take on a party and her opinion on his art, hearing her laugh across a room, seeing her lose herself in a piece of art. The feel of his hand in her hair, on her waist, as they danced. He had even contemplated doing something dramatic, like hopping on a plane to Italy.  

“Why didn’t you ask her to stay?” 

“This is good for her,” he insisted. “And god. How revoltingly basic.” 

“So you were reacting, then, by not asking her to stay? Acting contrary, which is what people expect of you?” Her voice was wry, but kind; she was trying to figure it out. 

He stopped. “Maybe.”. He paused. “I didn’t think of it like that.” Had he gotten complacent, stopped questioning, acted contrarily instead of freely? He squeezed her hand. “You’re an independent thinker, El. Just don’t let anyone tell you what that looks like.” 

“And you,” she said with a smile, “have a very kind heart. Don’t let the irony of the art world hammer that out of you.”

He shook his head to stop her from being more earnest. “Very well then.” This was getting emotional, and he stood. “You dragged me here, I am at least getting a drink.” 

Grabbing her hand, they wandered into the kitchen, an assortment of liquors and mixers on the counter and heavy music throbbing noisily. He reached for the most expensive tequila when a hand bumped his and — “Ow. Sorry there, mate.” 

He turned to see a petite, younger woman of Chinese descent, looking bored and out of place at this party. Her hair was long and she had large glasses, adding to a demeanor that Ben would describe as “academic”: She wore clogs, slightly baggy jeans, and a white tee shirt under a sweater vest, and had a wide-eyed look that indicated she’d rather be anywhere but this party. But as he smiled at her, he noticed three things: 

First, she appeared to be strikingly pretty under those glasses, soft eyes and excellent bone structure and an upturned mouth. 

Second, her tiny earrings and watch most likely cost at least twenty thousand pounds — she, unlike the rest of this sorry crew, came from money. 

And finally, she was definitely gay. 

Fantastic .

“Sorry.” He smiled. “This party drives me to boozing. Can I get you anything?”

“Uh, sure,” she said. “Maybe just a black and tan? I don’t trust too much liquor here, honestly.” 

“Not your scene?” He asked, grabbing a Guinness and a Harp’s from the sink.

“No, not really,” she said. Her accent was posh but unfamiliar — perhaps Hong Kong, or Sinagpore? “I’m a PhD student at Oxford and I don’t usually do protests, but my roommate dragged me here since it’s climate-related, and that's my focus.” Perfect. “But she disappeared ages ago with some boy.” 

“Yeah, I came here to drag my sister out to a bar that’s nicer and quieter but — oh! El! Oy! Over here.” He had to suppress a cackle at the perfect timing. 

“There you are,” she said breathlessly, then stopped dumb when she saw the woman. With a quick two blinks, she asked, “Made a friend, Ben?” Her eyes cut nervously back to the stranger, and Ben grinned. 

“Yes, I think so. She also hates this party, so she has good taste. Was thinking we should invite her to a drink if you’re game.” He was already mentally ticking through bars, trying to pick one that would allow sparks to fly. 

El looked at the new girl steadily, an eyebrow raised in an approximation of charm. “If you’d like it, we’d love to have you come. Ben is friendly, I promise.”   

She stared between them, clearly sizing them up to make sure they didn’t give off murder potential, then nodded. “Sure. I’m staying in Westminster if you know anything close to that?” 

White’s it was. “Absolutely. I will call a car. Grab your jackets, let’s escape.” 

“I’m Eloise Bridgerton, by the way,” El said, extending a hand.

The woman, clearly smitten, beamed back. “Phillipa Kwan,” she introduced herself. “But you can call me Piper.” 

As she lazily twirled a straw in her Negroni, Kate stared at the email, and sighed. A year ago, she would have been over the moon about it. Now, she was just tired. 

“Katie.” Soph reached over, and pinched her. Soph had put two and two together when Kate called and suggested a visit, but Kate knew her best friend was thrilled to see her. They’d started their trip with two days in Milan, staying in Sophie’s fabulous new flat and going to pre-Fashion Week parties and museums with her new friends. Yesterday they’d headed to the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni on Lake Como, and they were currently sitting on the patio in Galvan knitwear and Ray Bans and sun hats, after a day lounging on the back of a speedboat with some handsome Italian men that Sophie had found. Tonight, they were going to eat handmade pasta and drink full-bodied reds in some grotto so good it did not have a name. 

Truly, she should be present. 

“Sorry.” She dropped the phone next to the plate of burrata. 

“Is that Michael? Or another new beau?” Soph had been glad to be rid of Tom, but there was a flat, unimpressed quality to her tone.

“Nope, I think he’s on set. And I’m dating myself, remember?” She drummed her nails against the table. “No. It’s a job offer. In New York.” There was definitely irony in the fact that the email came when she was in Italy, she decided.

“What?” 

“Associate lead prosecutor for the International Rescue Committee.”

“At the UN? Didn’t you do that already?”

“No, that was just a tribunal, to come up with a framework for prosecuting legalized ethnic violence through civil litigation. This would be permanent. Litigation in the Hague, leading high-profile cases. All that.” She swallowed. “It’s a dream job.” 

“Is it your dream job?”

“I … don’t know.” At one point, yes. There was prestige in working for an international agency — inside-the-system experience was always a career boost. And she’d like the work: Nothing beat the thrill of a high-profile case, the pride in saying you worked for the UN, the moral clarity of bringing justice in a terrible case. 

The bloodless nature of a firm simply didn’t have the same rush. It was one of the reasons she was so frustrated about getting admitted to the English and Welsh bar. And there were more moral gray areas as a Magic Circle associate. But there were benefits in how they approached the work, and in the balance of work she managed: she liked being able to work on litigation prep and public law simultaneously; to advise businesses and ensure human-rights compliance in industries across countries like China, Singapore and, of course, India; to learn about more-political carrots and sticks, like sanctions and the development of corporate accountability mechanisms. Human-rights law was much harder to enforce than most people would believe, and this job’s different approach had a broader, higher-impact, and more nuanced reach: More people’s quality of life would be improved with the type of work she did now, even if it felt a less high-stakes than jailing a dictator. She knew that honestly, if the last six months had gone differently, she would absolutely not be considering this right now.

But now, thinking about what she wanted , she wondered if she should just go for it, the way she used to go for fun, impulsive things.  And returning to New York would force her to build better practices and boundaries with her family, truly dive into making her life her own, intentionally. 

But for all her positive self-talk and her early bedtimes and yoga classes, she wasn’t sure she was ready to make that leap. 

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I think you do know.” 

“Oh?”

“Your family has told you to live your life. You don’t have anything tying you to London. Why not you take a fabulous opportunity for yourself?”

Kate blurted out, “How did you know? That Milan was the right move? That you were running toward something, and not running away." 

She lifted a shoulder, and hummed. “I felt ready . London felt so foggy.” She swept a hand around the brilliant green and blue landscape, the glorious sun, the fashionable crowd. “Here I feel vibrant. Alive. Excited by the possibilities.” 

Kate took a sip of her drink. “Lady Danbury thinks I should go too.” They had had tea before she left for Italy to discuss if there were any shortcuts to barrister status in England. 

Sophie dropped her sunglasses down her nose. “Unless you want to stay. Because of Anthony? Keep up your three rowing dates per week through his marriages and children?”

Kate groaned, and slapped her hands over her eyes. “Lady Danbury asked that too,” she answered, begrudgingly. 

“So yes . It is.” 

“It is not ,” she replied. “But. Soph, I … I loved him, and there is an element of this decision where it’s just like, I don’t know what the right choice is. Neither feels perfect and both feel permanent.” She knew what she didn’t want, of course: worries and what-ifs and safe choices. But other than that, she wanted what she had always said she wanted: deep meaning and extraordinary adventure, hard work and sweaty purpose. She wanted laughter, and friends, and to show up for the people she loved without smothering them, and her own space and sense of self. The details, though, were still plenty shrouded, and she had already been struggling to parse out what she truly wanted, versus what she was considering solely because of Ant. 

But the job offer was like a flashbulb, shining directly onto the truths she told herself, forcing her to examine if she was building the life she wanted or just lying to herself in new ways about romance, her family, her career, her sense of self. 

And of course this was all complicated by the second email now waiting in her inbox — a PDF of her genetic test results. 

But she hadn’t been able to open that one yet. 

“Of course you love him, sweetie,” Sophie said gently, squeezing her hand, and Kate realized that Soph had probably known, all along. “But the right choice is whatever you want the most, and if you don’t fully know what that is, the only reason to stay would be the off chance that what you want is him. So?” 

Kate shook her head, if only to the notion that what she wanted most was a man. It scared and repulsed her a little — to potentially prioritize a man over her career or her family or anything else really. She had been self-reliant for so long, and it wasn’t a switch that she could just flip off. “I may have loved him, but he didn’t love me,” she replied, subtly tweaking Sophie’s verb tenses out of pure stubbornness. 

But Sophie just looked pitying more than anything else. “Why did you hold this in for so long?” 

She shrugged, looking down. “I thought I had it under control, but I didn’t. Clearly I was wrong.” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” Sophie teased, fondly. She was quiet for a pause.  “Is that it, then? You want him most of all?” 

The question made her heart beat faster, and not in a good way. “I — I cannot. Truly, we are so similar, Sophie. Besides —” she flicked the straw into an ashtray. “— He’s with Siena. And I think she may actually be what he wants.” Or at the very least, needed. Feelings mattered less than your choices and needs, like Siena said.  

“I thought you said he didn’t know what he wanted?” 

Her eyes flicked back toward the horizon, thoughts that had been swirling since the Emma-versary finally bubbling into vocalization. “Maybe I’m wrong.” She sighed. 

“I think the only way you can know is if you ask him,” Soph pointed out gently. 

That felt unbearable too, though. She straightened, folding her arms on the table precisely. “You can’t go back, you can only go forward. What do you think I should do about the job?” 

“First, you admit you were wrong, and then you ask for another’s opinion? Gosh, what growth, Katie.” Soph’s tone was amused, but genuine. “I do think the job could be good for you. But the worst thing you could do was go there and wonder, what if . So, you do have to get closure, before you move on.” 

Kate bit her lip, her chest nearly cracking. 

She was about to try and change the subject, when her phone, still on the table, started to ring: Mum. “That’s strange,” she said as an apology to Soph, and quickly picked it up. “Hello?” 

“Kathani?” her mother said, timidly. “Kate, it’s Mum. I’m calling to let you know — Appa’s in the hospital.” 

Col stared up at his sisters’ house, a twisted petulance rising in him. I’m out front , he texted Pen. I know you’re home, I saw you on El’s Stories. Come out now or I’ll start knocking and yelling that I’m sorry AND that we slept together. 

Desperate times, desperate measures, all of that. 

Not thirty seconds later, Pen opened the door and slammed it shut behind her. She was in yoga pants and slip-ons, her hair messy, and yet his heart skipped a beat at finally, finally seeing her after three weeks. “ What are you doing, coming to my house and making threats , Colin?” she hissed, pausing three inches from him to glare. She kept marching, though, opening the gate, gesturing for him go ahead. “Come on, then.” 

He walked through, grabbing her wrist and tugging her along as he passed. “ You wouldn’t return my texts or calls.” He had been trying, for days, to talk to her. 

“I was in Greece ,” she retorted. She’d gone with her sister, who was filming the finale of Kensington Bred , and the fact that she willing hung out with Prudence gave him some indication of how absolutely mad she was at him. He had no idea where she was going as she whirled through Notting Hill. “It’s been a very stressful summer. You honestly have no idea. I was relaxing. ” 

“Posting thirst traps .” Every single day, at least three bikini photos, photos of her partying, photos of her kissing the cheeks of tall German men and sitting in the laps of husky Italian ones. 

“Clearly not for you, since you’re never going to date me!” Finally, her voice crescendoed into a true shout, and two passersby stopped to look at them. 

He slid his hand into hers, and tugged her into the nearest pub. “Let’s have a drink. Because I tried to apologize by text at least five times and you never responded to me .” 

The pub was dingy, pathetic for five PM — a few drunks at the bar and some sad American pop song on the jukebox. He led her into a booth, sat her down. “Can we just talk?” he finally asked, raising a finger for a waitress. “Please?” 

“What’s there to talk about?” she asked. She shook her head when the waitress asked if she wanted anything to drink. Fuck, that meant he only had a few minutes. “We weren’t dating. You don’t want to date me. Everyone is clear, here.” 

He knew, obviously, that he fucked up at Daff’s wedding. He hadn’t meant anything by the comments in the garden, had just been shutting down Freddie and Fife’s trash talk. He had been enjoying his time with Pen, sneaking around his siblings, carving out a space for whatever undefined thing they had. Sure, he hadn’t worked out what it was or what he thought — but of course he enjoyed spending time with Pen. 

After they’d returned from Kent, she had stopped responding to his texts, and three days later the Greece photos started. After the first, it was like he was mad with an addiction; he checked her social media, her sister’s, even Lady Whistledown, several times a day to see if there was an update. His brothers and Fred had noticed something was off, but of course he couldn’t say anything. He even avoided Fran and El because he knew they could probably sniff him out and then he’d really be in trouble. 

It all sucked, honestly. Pen was his best friend. And all he could think of was how badly he’d hurt his best friend. 

“Right, but I’m really sorry about what I said,” he insisted. “I wanted to send you flowers.” 

“But you didn’t, because I live with your sisters, and nobody can know about us,” she retorted sarcastically. 

“Well — yeah.” He hadn’t known if that would piss her off even more. “You wanted that.” 

“I went along with it.” She rolled her eyes. “You were embarrassed by me.” 

That was not exactly untrue, and he flinched. “No, I wasn’t, not really. I just didn’t want to deal with my family, and everyone.” 

She huffed, completely done with the conversation. “You know what your problem is, Colin? You don’t fight for things. You don’t want things, you don’t try . Hell, I don’t think you know what you want.” 

“What? Come on, Pen. That’s not fair.” He tried not to flinch, bu that was precisely what he feared people though about him, and to have it thrown back in his face by Pen — it was a sick form of validation, a mirror he couldn’t step away from.

“You’re just the amiable mate floating among all your driven, accomplished, perfect siblings, and you’re just lost. Ant gets you a job, Ben and El get you into clubs. Fred gets you girls, I get you a pitch for your ‘brilliant’ idea that you weren’t going to take anywhere. You don’t know what you want or what you stand for. But when Fife and Freddie are absolutely disgusting about me, about us, you play the coward. Then you’re surprised that I get upset.” Her voice was flat, almost icily unimpressed. It was terrifying. 

He gaped at her, trying to form words, to hold onto his perspective. “Pen, come on. We hadn’t talked at all about what we wanted, and we’d agreed not to tell anyone. So what was I supposed to say? I was just trying to shut them up. You weren’t meant to overhear it.” 

She stared at him. “Colin Bridgerton,” she said, very carefully. “Do you want. To date me?” 

“Pen,” he groaned. “I mean … maybe? You’re lovely. Pen, you’re honestly tops. You’re my best friend! Come on, let’s not rock the boat, I mean. Can we just … calm down? It’s not a big deal, let’s just have a beer. Talk things out.” It was pathetic begging, and he knew that.  

“No thank you. There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, standing. She was blazingly beautiful in her fury, at her full potential, powerful and perfectly clear. “You’re a coward , Colin Bridgerton. A lazy, spineless coward. You did not have to love me. You did not even have to date me! But you did need to respect me.” She threw ten quid on the table even though she had not ordered anything. “So don’t call me again. And if your sisters ask, we’re just not hanging out as much.” 

And with that, she flounced off. 

The waitress showed up with his beer, and he drank it slowly. Alone at a pub in broad daylight. 

Just because he didn’t know if he wanted to date her didn’t mean he didn’t like her, didn’t mean he didn’t respect her. All it meant was that he wasn’t sure. 

Maybe he really should send her flowers. 

It was just past eleven when Kate finally made it to the hospital, her nerves completely shot. She’d barely been able to speak on the fifty-minute drive to the Milan airport, had nearly cried when wheedling a ticket out of Ryanair. Kate had called Mum at least five times, and she was tired but reassuring, providing updates but reminding Kate that it was just pneumonia, something that had to be treated but was hardly fatal. 

She’d bitten down each and every one of her nails on the flight, and called again when she got in an uber, but Mum didn’t pick up — too late, Kate reasoned. She blew through the hospital to the fifth floor, beelined straight for her father’s room, and immediately saw —

“Ant?” she asked dumbly, but there he was. He was dressed incredibly casually, in jeans and clean trainers and a pale grey cashmere sweater, his hair spiky from running his hands through it. Sitting in an armchair next to a sleeping Appa, reading what appeared to be the FT to him. Probably keeping him up to date on the scandal with the Euro columnist they both hated. “It’s your birthday .” Or it would be in another forty-seven minutes. 

He shrugged, a bit bashfully, and stood. “He just fell asleep. We should keep our voices down.” He folded the paper, tossed it on his chair, and came a bit closer to her. Impulsively, she reached out to hug him. After a infinitesimal pause, he enveloped her, and she sank into his embrace. Her heart rate slowed for the first time in hours, and she thought she felt him press a kiss into her hair. 

They stood there for far, far too long. 

“How did you …” She pulled back, her hands dragging all the way down his arms before dropping his fingers last. 

“Soph called Ben, who told me. I called your mum and asked if she needed support while you traveled in.” 

“You didn’t have to,” she said automatically.

“I know.” He raised two patient eyebrows. “I wanted to.” 

She nodded. “Where is Mum?” She flicked her braid over her Tory Burch cardigan, crossing her arms to keep warm.

“She was pretty tired, so I sent her home to sleep in a real bed. Said I would stay until you got here.”

Suddenly, she remembered the day, and why she’d flown to Italy in the first place. “Ant, did you miss tons of calls from Siena?” 

“Honestly, my service is shit in here.” He tugged his phone out of his pocket. “Yeah. No bars.” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you know, Sharma?” 

She bit her lip. “She was throwing you a surprise birthday party tonight. A day early so you wouldn’t get suspicious.” 

“Fuck,” he swore, going just a touch white. “Well. I’m going to stay here for a while longer and hide, if you don’t mind.” He bounced back on his heels, and raised an eyebrow boyishly, pleadingly. “Help a bloke out. Please?”

She tilted her head, with a small smile. “Walk with me to get tea? And fill me in on Appa.” 

“That sounds fantastic.” 

“Ant?” she asked tentatively.

“Yeah?”

She hugged him again, this time dropping a soft kiss onto his neck. Boundaries felt both soft and impermanent right now. “ Thank you.” 

In response, he simply tightened his grip on her waist. 

Her walk down the stairs was much slower than her sprint up. Now that they’d broken the No Touching rule, they were simply back to being magnetized and synchronized, and she decided she simply wasn’t going to think about that tonight. She didn’t think about how relieved she was that he was here, how easy it was to welcome his support; she could not feel guilt that she was keeping him from his girlfriend and her very lovely birthday party. 

Ant’s hand stayed at the small of her back as they wound through the fluorescent stairwells, her steps matched his cadence without needing to try. The hospital was calm, the beeps and murmurs a comfort that reminded her of visiting Appa at work when she was small. There were only a few staffers in the dimly lit hallways, walking on their soft shoes, talking in their soft voices. 

Appa had had a cough, and it had gotten much worse in the last two days; that morning, he couldn’t get out of bed. Mum had taken him to the GP and called Dr. Shah, who ordered scans of his lungs. He had a fever and pneumonia, and they’d transferred him to the hospital in Maidenhead. He’d been put on several medications — Ant had written down the names if she wanted to search them — and his breathing was better, his oxygen levels were up. They could expect him to stay for three to five days. 

They picked up crisps, decaf coffee and chai, a few chocolate bars, some Haribo packets, and two cupcakes for when midnight came around. Then he reached his hand into a cooler for bottles of water. “Is Michael coming?” he asked, pausing before he pulled any out.

She shook her head. “No.” Michael was in Croatia shooting. “Why would he?” 

“Because, you know, you’re dating?” He took the two water bottles. “And he should be here to support you.” 

She cackled, nearly dropping the crisps. “ What ?” she wheezed. 

He looked at her quizzically. “Are you … not?” 

“I told you we weren’t!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “At Daff’s wedding.” 

“You told me you were .” 

“I said I was doing things for myself.” 

“And I inferred the thing you were doing was Michael.” He shook his head a bit as they headed to the wrap. “So you’re … not, then?” His tone was intentionally disinterested.

She chuckled. “Completely single. Figuring things out. Have you really been thinking this whole month that we’re dating?”

“You’ve shown up to parties with him.” 

“Parties he’s left with models,” she replied, snagging a granola bar and leaving the rest for him to pick up, which he did. 

“I was being a gentleman and not making assumptions.” 

“First time for everything,” she teased. 

Appa was still sleeping as they entered the room, and they carefully sat on the worn sofa under the window, about ten feet from him. “How’s he doing?” He nodded carefully at Appa. “He looks … frailer than he did in May.” 

She shifted so that she was resting her head on the back of the couch, almost but not quite on his shoulder, so she couldn’t look at him. The room was dark, blue glowing yellow, and the rest of the world felt far away from their vigil. It was cozy, almost holy, the monitors a steady and soothing lullaby. “Not great,” she finally admitted. She pressed a hand over her abdomen to keep her breathing steady. She hadn’t told anyone this, and the words ached as they left her throat. 

“Oh?” he asked, slowly draping an arm around her, pulling her directly to him. She shifted her head to his shoulder. It was nice there. 

“Yeah. He … he wants to go into a care home.” She sniffed a bit. “I’m the one having the most trouble with it.”

His hand slowly found its way up into her hair, massaging the base of her scalp under her braid. “What’s worrying you about it?” 

“Well, first of all, the finances.” An easier starting place than the fact that her parents had kicked her out of their affairs. “It’s much more expensive than a part-time aide, and Mum retired a few years ago.” She could see if Mum wanted to go back to work, but she wasn’t sure if any of this was her place, now. “I think they’ll need to sell the house. That will cover a lot but we’ll still need to find Mary a place to live.” 

“What’s the house worth?” His voice was deceptively casual, his fingers soothing. She scooted closer.

“Five million, probably. About five hundred left on the mortgage first.” 

He shifted his hand out of her hair, her braid now a mess, squeezing her shoulder. “If the sellers are interested, I know a fantastic real estate conglomerate who would be willing to talk.” 

She snorted, leaning into him more. Finally she just pulled his extra arm around her waist, and turned completely into his chest, sliding a leg over his as she breathed him in. “What interest would Bridgerton Group have?” 

“It’s a fabulous investment,” he said, quietly placing another kiss in her hair. Hazily, she wondered how they got here, so quickly. “Childhood home of a Wimbledon champ and one of the leading human-rights solicitors in Britain. It’ll make a fortune on resale in ten years.” 

“And what will you do before resale?” she murmured.

“Rent it out, long-term. Pass that along to you all for Mary’s new place. Probably about a hundred twenty a year, I’d reckon, in rent.”

Her breath hitched. “Ant … You don’t have to.” 

“I know,” he said softly. “I want to. It’s called help , Sharma.” 

“That’s an awful lot of help.” She tried to keep her voice casual, to cover the ache in her heart. They were messy and complicated, definitely, but she was just … grateful … to have him in her life.

“You know that it isn’t for me.” She could feel his lips in her hair, his breathing, just slightly labored, through his chest at her back. She was reminded of the steadiness, the solidness, of him , one of the things that drew her to him in the first place. That, and the enormous-if-hidden heart, which was also fully on display. “And even if it was, I would offer. It’s help. Given freely, without expectation. You may not need it, you may not like it, but it is there, should you want it.” 

She moved to face him. Some of her hair had fallen out of the braid, with all their illicit cuddling, and she quickly tried to shake it out of the way. His eyes were inches from her, searching and dark, guarded and hopeful. She stared back, and licked her lips. “I’ll think about it,” she finally said. They both knew she’d take him up. “And. Thank you.” She was saying that too much today, and she didn’t seem to mind as much as she usually would.

He pushed the hair out of her face, but his hand stayed on her cheek, hesitating to move. “You know I’d do anything for you, right, Kate?” 

She nodded, almost involuntarily, even turned her head to kiss his palm. Then her eyes caught the clock behind him. 12:01. “Ant!” she whispered, partly to break the spell. She reached for the two cupcakes, their icing even worse than what they’d managed at KP. They clinked their two treats. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, trying to keep sadness and longing out of her voice. They’d only ever celebrated Eloise’s together, and she let her mind wander to how they might celebrate under other circumstances. “May it be your biggest and best year yet.” A proposal, a promotion — it really might be.

She was proud of him.  

He smiled at her, taking a big bite. “Thanks, Sharma.” 

“Sorry you’re here with me, not celebrating in a posh club in Soho with a sparkler cake.” 

“This is where I want to be.” He reached over, wiped a crumb off her cheek. “I may be shit at apologies specifically, and words generally, Kate, though I am trying my damnedest to be more aware there. For everyone.” He huffed out a quiet breath. “But I will always show up for someone I care about.” She nodded; she knew that in her marrow . She wished he knew that they knew that, in his. “And I … I … care about you. Very deeply.”

She may have been completely delirious with stress, and letting her imagination run wild, but she felt it sounded like he was going to say love , not care. 

They slumped together after they were done, too tired and too wired to go to sleep. “Tell me about Appa,” he whispered, as they spread out, legs tangled on the coffee table and her head back to resting on his shoulder. “What it was like, growing up.” She wasn’t sure if it was the soothing drabness of the hospital room, or the lateness and emotion of the day, or lowered stakes of their current relationship, but she felt like she could be truly open in front of him for the first time ever. No expectations, no nerves, no calculations about what to share or hold back on. She realized, suddenly, that that was because this was an ending, not a beginning. They owed each other nothing but honesty. “He wouldn’t shut up about you earlier, you know.” 

“And why should he? I’m his favorite oldest daughter.” She poked his side, but truly did wonder what they talked about. “He was wonderful, growing up. Very strict — it was hard for him to be so far from home, and he had a sort of coddled life in Delhi. His mother and grandmother and a house of servants to look after him. And then here, just us and Amma. And then just us.” She traced his signet ring with her index finger. “But he was always so proud. That was never in question.” She talked about learning chess, about the pony he bought her when she turned ten, about how he’d come to all of her rowing matches with a megaphone so she could hear him on the course. “I’m … scared about what comes next.” 

He tightened his grip on her waist. “It’ll probably suck. But I believe in you. And you’ve got people who love you, who are here to help.” 

“Tell me about Edmund,” she finally said. “Your speech at the wedding … It was the first time I’d heard you talk about him as a person.” She had loved the real story, not the hagiography. “I see so much of him in you.” 

His fingers ran through her hair as he spoke — about the look in Edmund’s eye before he pranked one of his kids, and the way he held a room, and Ant learning how to slide down the bannister and to shoot and to balance a ledger. 

“What do you think he’d think of the board vote?” she asked.

He sighed. “I don’t know. I think he’d be excited but want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons.”

“What are those?” 

“Being excited about the role and not just the legacy. Energized to lead.” 

“Are you?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “Nervous, but it’s … the company, it’s a balance between me and the legacy. It’s responsibility, but it’s … seamless. Natural.” Unlike with so many aspects of his family, she knew he felt confident, centered, at the company. “Can I ask you a question?” he finally asked, softly. 

She stiffened, feeling a break in the spell coming. “Sure.” 

“On marriage, and kids —” he started. “Has it always just been a no, or is it something you never allowed yourself to want?” A door, one that had never been fully shut, cracked a tiny bit open. 

She froze, and tried to exhale. “Definitely, the latter. But I’m not sure about the former.” It was the first time she’d said it out loud. “Especially with Appa —” She tilted her chin toward him, “— and my risk factor, I always worried about … being a burden eventually, and in the meantime a family always seemed like yet more people to care for. And now … I just don’t know.” For the hundredth time in the last two weeks, she felt struck by the vastness of choices. The fact that each of those choices eliminated an entire world of future choices, that she would never get to see, get to ponder. 

The fact that happiness was ultimately the biggest of those choices, a trick of being satisfied with the decisions you made and sealing yourself off from the what-ifs. 

“Do you … do you think you might, ever?” His voice was hesitant, and she knew, in that moment, that both of their future happiness could very well boil down to how she answered. That if she gave him an out, he would take it. 

It caused a deep, fresh fear to seize in her chest. “I don’t know. And I certainly don’t know when I’d know.” She knew she was open to it, certainly to thinking about it, but that wasn’t the same; right now, she mostly just wanted Ant. Not the rest of it. And that wasn’t enough, for either of them. Her voice was raw, and honest, and a tiny bit broken. “And for you … You really want a family, a wife, kids, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he said, in a tone that indicated it was the first time he’d said it out loud, in an honest way, too. “It’s not just, you know, the cage .” He swallowed, and she realized how devastating her answer had been to him. “It’s fucking terrifying, and with kids there are so many unknowns but I … I don’t know if I knew , so much as I realized . I like that we’re our father’s legacy, each of us has a piece of him. And I did an OK job with Greg and Hyacinth, didn’t I?” 

She smiled, even as tears pricked her eyes. “The best.” She sighed, and knocked her forehead against his. “You should go after what you want, Ant.” 

“Oh?”

“I mean it.” She swallowed, thickly, and made a decision. She wouldn’t be the source of his unhappiness. She could not ask him to wait, not if there was any chance her answer was no. She couldn’t stay, she knew that now, but she wanted him to become the man she knew he was. The one he wanted to be. “Get married, have your kids, go after what you want. You deserve nothing less.” 

And she knew, then, that she would be moving to New York.

“Kate, that’s not —”

“ — I got a job offer,” she interrupted. “A dream job offer, really.” It was, truly, even if she wasn’t sure it was her dream. “Back in New York.”

“What?”

“A prosecutorial role at IRC.”

“You cannot leave.” 

“I can, and I will. I have to make choices on what I do want, not what I might want in the future. It’s just not fair to either of us.” She tilted her head up. “We were … mere passion. You’ll forget me in time.” 

He stroked her cheek, and she leaned forward, kissing him deeply, the passion that they were being poured into the kiss, into the goodbye. She started to cry, and he pulled her back, cradling her face in his palms. “That would never be true.” When she opened her eyes, she realized he was crying too. 

They kissed some more, and then dozed off, tangled into each other and his heartbeat in her ear. It was tender, and sweetly sad, more than anything else, and she was glad he was here with her, glad they had this night. Sometime in the pinking dawn he woke, dropped a kiss on her forehead. She shifted. “I should go,” he whispered. 

“I know,” she whispered, adjusting her head against the much less-comfortable back of the couch.

She swore she heard him say I love you, Kate , as he left. 

When she woke again, it was at least a few hours later, and Appa was shifting in his bed. “Kathani,” he said mildly. “Thank you for coming.” 

“How are you feeling?” She moved quickly to help him, grabbed a juicebox from his tray. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” 

“I’m not,” he said. “Your trip sounded wonderful.”

She smiled, taking his hand. “It was nice to see Sophie.” 

“Is Anthony still here? He needs to finish the article on inflation in Spain.” 

“No. I think he headed off early in the morning. It’s his birthday today. His girlfriend wanted to celebrate. I can read, if you tell me where you left off.” 

Appa studied her, and she squirmed under his gaze. “You know, my darling, he seems to be perhaps inarticulate with feelings, and maybe a little confusing. But you cannot deny that he always shows up, and that is perhaps more than a pretty word or two.” Kate thought of Appa, reading her to sleep during storms when she was small; Mum, learning how to make curry and roti and paneer.  

“Appa, I know he’s very kind, but I just … I just don’t see the timing working out.”

“I don’t want you spending so much time waiting for bad things in life that you can’t recognize something truly good when you have it.” He indicated she should set the juicebox down. “Did your test results come in?”

“I … Yes. Tuesday.” She shifted from foot to foot, before sitting down in the armchair. “I opened it on the plane, actually.” She hadn’t been able to stop herself, too worried both about Appa but finally, about her. 

He nodded. “And?” 

She closed her eyes, and decided to accept the courage. “I’m negative for the gene.” The news had not brought joy; instead, she had felt guilty, almost like she betrayed Appa. Left him all alone in his illness.

“Well, that’s so wonderful,” Appa said, and he sounded truly happy. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, Kathani.” 

She squeezed his hand, and smiled at him as the tears, relief mixed with sadness mixed with gratitude mixed with nostalgia, started to fall. 

Chapter Text

Love isn't patient, and kind, and humble. Love is messy, and horrible, and selfish, and bold. It's not about finding your perfect half. It's the try, and reaching, and failing. — The Half of It

“Ant,” Siena said. “ Ant. ” She tugged his sleeve as they kept walking. “You with me?” 

He turned to her with a smile. “Sorry.” He blinked, and slowed his pace. “Just thinking.” 

“Not to worry. It’s been a big forty-eight hours.” She gave him a bit of a trying smile, clearly a little irritated with his un-presentness, and looped her arm around his elbow. “Are you excited?” 

Yesterday — Thursday — the board of governors had officially voted, and he was unanimously chosen to become the CEO as of January 1st. Truthfully, he could scarcely believe it; he’d been working toward  this for so long that astonishment was probably the strongest of the many emotions he was feeling. 

But today, the press release had gone out, and there had been all sorts of interviews — Fortune on being the youngest CEO on the F100; the Sunday Times on upholding his centuries-old family legacy; the FT on leadership in a time of global economic uncertainty. It was heady but exhausting: At the end of the day, when Bloomberg asked what he did for fun, all he could get out was, “Row. Or balance ledgers with a glass of Scotch.”

His head of global communications had not been pleased. 

And while he’d just as soon stay in, his mother, Daff and Si were throwing him a small party — eighty or ninety people or so — at White’s to celebrate. Lady Violet had invited the board and Prince Richard before she invited him, making it impossible to say no. 

“Of course,” he replied. “It’s the culmination of twelve years of work. And what I’ve wanted to do since I was probably twelve myself.” 

She nodded, disappointed, and he realized that she had meant the party. 

Things had been tense for the last week, since the night with Kate. He’d told Siena — entirely truthfully — that he’d had no idea they were meeting, that there was no cell service in the hospital, and that by the time he’d gotten home, his phone was dead. He’d fallen asleep before it booted back up. 

He did leave out that he didn’t make it home until six AM, and that he had kissed Kate. 

It had still caused an argument, naturally — Siena  felt embarrassed, and mad about her ruined gesture. He’d replied, in a somewhat exasperated tone, that perhaps surprises were not the way to go, then: He absolutely would have met her had he known of any plans, even if the plans involved mostly her friends and loud music. But it was unreasonable to be upset and angry that he hadn’t met some unspoken expectation. 

She had disagreed, arguing that going off the grid for hours without so much as a text was the unreasonable thing, and he did have to give that one to her. 

After all, he had kissed Kate. Multiple times. 

So he’d apologized, sent flowers (he finally understood why Colin did so fanatically). Taken her out for a nice dinner, apologizing again, mollifying her anger into irritation. 

“You should be, they’re all so proud of you.” She adjusted his lapel. “Anyways. I may have some news of my own, I think.” 

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrow. 

“They’re doing a celebrity edition of Strictly Come Dancing , for charity,” she said, voice rushing with excitement. “They’ve asked me to be one of the celebrities, and to sing the theme song.” 

“Wow,” he exclaimed, trying to wrap his head around it. “That sounds like a really big opportunity.” It also sounded like something a Featherington would do. In fact, he was pretty sure that one of them had . 

“Absolutely! And they’ll let me promote my podcast.” Siena had taken up Glamour UK’ s offer to host a podcast about inspiring women around Britain. “I’m going to dance for a maternal mental-health charity, it’s a great cause, I’ve decided. And don’t worry, I checked; there’s no obligations for any sort of personal-life vignettes, or for the partner to come — so you’re good!” 

“Wow,” he repeated, still trying to remember if it was Pippa or Pru who’d been on last season. “And this is something you’re keen to do?” 

She dropped his elbow, gesturing to the news rack behind him: Thirty copies of Daff’s face, above the words A Modern English Rose , stared back at them from the cover of British Vogue . Inside, he knew, was an eight-page spread of her in white and off-white, talking about philanthropy and fashion and love in twenty-first-century London. “Don’t be a wanker. Yes. Yes I do. Daphne has millions of Instagram followers — hell, your house has millions of Instagram followers — and is always on magazine covers. But that’s alright, because she’s entitled to it. As soon as someone wants something, your whole lot sniffs at it.” 

There was plenty of daylight between the two, he felt: Daff didn’t do gossip mags, the tabs, or paparazzi, just carefully structured engagements with the society press; she only did probably three interviews a year, not a weekly chat on a reality-TV show; finally, what she chose to do and say about her personal life was between Daff and Simon, not him. He wasn’t sure if he had the space or standing to pick apart these differences, or weigh in on her participation at all; he’d be upset if she did the same for him. 

But Siena certainly had a point about their lot. “That’s because we’re shit at knowing what we want, alright? That’s us, not you.” 

She smiled, faintly, and then they were at White’s. 

His family had rented out the private club for the evening, and Daff and his mother had tried to transform the rooms with flowers, bright lights and candles, and draping, but they did little to cover the oaken paneling, marble and gold accents, gilded wallpaper, and tapestry rugs. White’s was White’s, and had been for three centuries — the only thing that ever changed was the admittance of women, in the 70s. Somewhere under the bar, the ninth Viscount Bridgerton had carved his name. Ant had gotten his first underaged drink there, at twelve, with Nick; his father had bought him his first legal lager in the same stools four years later. 

There was a dense, raucous round of applause as he entered, and he and Siena parted so he could make the rounds. He watched Siena share a cheek-kiss with Cressy and Helen as he stood first with Prince Dick, then the board and Harry, and then with his family for photos. Once photos were taken the rest of the crowd pressed forward, and he started making his way down the line to shake hands, kiss cheeks, and accept congratulations. He was keen to greet everyone who had turned out: plenty of them were old friends of his parents, but they were excited for him, and it was surprisingly touching. 

He’d just turned away from Araminta Fitzwilliam, the Countess of Wexford, when he turned to face Kate, chatting with Bex. She was in an olive-green Burberry sheath dress, with leopard-print pumps and her hair straightened back into a chignon; he suspected she’d come straight from work. “Kate,” he said, with a bit of a frozen smile — it was the first time that they’d seen each other since he’d kissed her, multiple times, and left her at the hospital. 

Since he kissed her, multiple times, told her he loved her and left her at the hospital. 

“Ant,” she said with a smile back. “Congratulations.” 

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “How’s Appa?” he asked quietly before he stepped back. 

“Better, thank you.” She ran her palms flat down her dress. “He came home Wednesday and is already well enough to yell at the cricket players on the telly again.” 

He nodded, and barely got a greeting to Bex in before the crowd pushed him forward again. 

Siena reappeared at his side when the toasts began; first Harry, the outgoing CEO, followed by his mother, Lady Danbury, and then Ben, Nick, and Simon. It was entirely too much — the effusive praise, the joking stories, the fact that he needed to smile and not grimace or roll his eyes or look bored at the effusive praise or the joking stories. Siena touched his back when he suspected he looked especially zoned out. 

Across the crowd, he caught Kate’s eyes. She gave him a small smile, and he straightened.

The speeches ended with a round of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow , and then the appetizers started circulating. Ben sidled up to him, Daff not far behind, as Siena melted toward some of the wives of his colleagues. “Truly, congrats, brother,” Ben said, tipping his lager glass toward him. “Nobody’s worked harder than you.” 

“Yes, looks like you’re well positioned to achieve all of your goals,” Daff murmured.

He looked between them. Ben was the only person who knew enough about last week to be dangerous, having alerted Ant to Appa’s medical emergency, then attended the bust of a surprise party, then been awake when Ant had gotten home. “You told her,” he accused, very simply, to Ben. 

“Told me what?” Daff asked, and Ant realized his error. 

“I did not,” Ben said smugly, but then proceeded to summarize, at least giving Ant the courtesy of keeping his voice low. 

“Nothing happened,” he insisted quickly, when Daff’s eyebrows started to go up. “We fell asleep.” 

“Did nothing happen, or did you fall asleep?” Ben asked. 

“You told Siena this and she still came tonight?” Daff, astonished, was close behind. 

Ant closed his eyes for several beats. “Siena knows what she needs to know, and I’ve apologized profusely. Besides —” He exhaled — “Kate is moving back to New York. We’ve discussed, and it’s been decided. It won’t be a problem.” 

Ant didn’t need a disappointed or gossipy sibling to underline the fact that he was not being truthful with Siena — he knew, even with all their caveats, that it was fundamentally a terrible thing. He felt awful, both to have kissed Kate while with Siena, and then to carefully obscure the fact. He had tried — he wasn’t sure if he succeeded — to treat her feelings with care, instead of mocking into nothingness, or framing them away. He knew he was easily capable of defaulting to both; he was trying to be better.

But he also knew that it truly was a goodbye, and it would be pointless to blow up the groove he and Siena had fallen into over it. The choice did not sit lightly with him — he had never, even when merely acquaintances with a woman, been anything but honorable and above-board. But his best and worst quality, he knew, was his unyielding, unrelenting commitment. He could not offer much, but he could offer loyalty; he could offer effort. And he would commit, now. For himself, for Kate, for Siena. There was no self-deception or rationalizing in his read of the situation, the tradeoffs he was weighing; rather a clear-eyed, grounded understanding of how his future would play out.

How he would choose for his future to play out. 

Kate would move to New York, he would marry Siena; they would both become the things they always wanted to be. There would be no furtive messages, no tragic and nostalgic trysts. Life would simply … go on. He would not forget her; he hoped in time the fondness would outweigh the pain of the memories.  

Daff simply raised an eyebrow, though. “Oh Ant.” She sighed before walking away. He had the distinct feeling of being pitied. 

Luckily, he was too in-demand to be alone for long. Nick handed him a drink, his executive team wanted to do shots. His shoulders were probably bruised from getting slapped too much. He saw Siena introducing herself to Eloise and Fran; it felt overdue and he felt a bit guilty. His mother dabbed at her wet eyes as she spoke with Prince Dick. 

But through it all he just … could not shake Kate’s presence, or mentally tracking where she was: Greg and Hy, Nick and Freddie, Daff and Simon, Bex in between everyone else. There was an intimate inevitability to it, casual and endless and entirely too unthinking. He simply sensed her; was perhaps more aware of her than ever before, now that he knew they were ships quickly passing. It would bend, he knew, they would make it so; he wondered if it would ever truly break. 

He knew he needed to talk to her. Finally, he saw her slip into the little courtyard at the back, the one older members used for a smoke now that it had been outlawed. Perhaps, it was a chance.

She didn’t look surprised. “Fancy running into you here,” he said, by way of greeting. “You look fantastic.” It wasn’t lascivious, just a mere acknowledgement between friends who shared too much for dishonesty. 

“Ant.” She exhaled. “Congratulations, again.” Her tone settled on light, proud, a touch of a smirk confidently dancing at the corner of her mouth. 

“Thank you for coming,” he replied, staying a careful four feet from her, his voice on the wry side of formal. She looked, for lack of a better term, armored up in her work outfit, a world away from the messy braid and stained shirt and the quiet lights of the hospital. 

“Of course,” she said. “I really am … I know how important this is. I wouldn’t miss it, truly.” She nodded, with a twist of her hands. “How are you feeling?” She was deeply composed, except for her eyes. Her eyes said too much. 

He bounced on his heels, her nerves, her sad-but-grown-up aura, becoming contagious. “Many things. Still working that out, I suppose.” He couldn’t wait to throw himself into the role, but he also had to admit he was a little daunted, as well — the goal posts had moved, the bar had been raised. He was more aware than ever of the needs that Lady Danbury had articulated. Ant shook his head; those thoughts could wait until Monday. “I am — I’m very glad to hear Appa is out of the hospital.” 

“Yes. And — thank you. For the arrangement with the house.” His lawyers had called Mary earlier that day to work everything out. 

“Anytime, truly. Have you … have you all found any place for him to move to?” He took one step closer. 

“Mary says she has a list.” She sighed. “Edwina — she’s coming back next weekend, probably, to take a look around.” Edwina had rebounded from her terrible loss at Wimbledon; she’d won Newport, made it to the semis in Cincinnati and Toronto, the finals in Indian Wells. 

“Won the second round, right?” he asked. The US Open started last week. 

“Yup.” She smiled. “She’s doing better than ever.” She shook her head. “I’m kind of nervous to have her come home.” 

“Just speak from the heart,” he suggested. 

“Easier said than done,” she replied ruefully, then shook her head. “And I did — I did want to apologize. For how I acted in the hospital. I was … emotional, and I know that you’re with Siena, I have no intention —”

“— Please don’t apologize,” he insisted, voice going hoarse. “Please … just don’t. Don’t ever. I was there, too. I wouldn’t change anything.” A look of understanding passed between them, and he’d wondered if she’d heard him, when he said I love you . “When do you leave for New York?” He tried, but he simply couldn’t muster the excitement he knew she deserved. Instead it was careful, a little sad, respectful. Her eyes seemed to be nearly overflowing, and he realized that she must have heard. 

For the life of him, he couldn’t explain why he had gone to the hospital last Saturday. Why he had stayed, even after Kate showed up. Why he had asked her, if she’d ever reconsider her position. Why he had kissed her, why he had said he loved her. The new therapist had asked him all of those questions, and he hadn’t an answer. It had all been exquisite, thoughtless emotional torture. He had finally told Dr. Kep that he supposed he wanted closure. It had been that, that wasn’t entirely true. 

He had, quite simply, just hoped. Futilely, stupidly. 

He was a coward, and she clearly was too. Otherwise she’d at least let him go mercifully.

“I have a final interview — a courtesy, more or less — a week from Monday.” She licked her lips, and a flash of excitement passed across her eyes. He was glad, and definitely proud, that she was doing something that she wanted. Something that would so clearly help so many, let so many people see what made her extraordinary. “Leaving that Sunday. I’m pretty excited, honestly, now that I’ve wrapped my head around it.” 

“You’ll kill it,” he said with a small smile, still a yard away and not moving closer. “I … I also wanted to let you know, I’ve decided to take your advice.” 

Her eyes widened, understanding immediately what he meant — he planned to propose to Siena. “Wow. That’s great. When?” 

“I, uh. In relatively short order, I suppose.” He shrugged. She was the first person he told things to; he had wanted to call her the second the vote came through — “And, it felt like a courtesy.” He sighed, trying to figure out the most polite way out of this conversation. “I’ll wait until you’re out of the country.” 

“No need to hold on my behalf,” she responded, voice a bit crisp. “We’ve both made our choices.” It was said without any acrimony, as a benediction. Then, quietly —“We should celebrate them.” 

“Ant are you out here, Harry wants to — oh bother .” Ben appeared in the door, and even though they weren’t standing close, they both jumped back. 

“Not to worry.” Kate moved toward the door. “I’m keen to chat with Lady Danbury.” She swiftly exited. 

“You know—” Ben turned to him with a raised eyebrow — “when I said it was time to change your perspective , this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” 

Ant glared in response. 

“I’m going to miss these ridiculous parties when I’m in New York.” Kate sighed, swirling her green cocktail. “Like, this drink is called the Spritz of the Serengeti . What even is that?” 

With a smile, Sophie angled the straw on her own cocktail — titled the Tusk-tini — through her mask. She’d worked with a Milanese designer to come up with the Venetian-style flamingo mask, and it was both beautiful and deeply impractical: thin, hot pink feathers shot off it and tear-dropped all around her face, baby-pink feathers followed her cheekbones to create definition. “Colonialism, in a drink.” Through her (much more modest) blue-and-green peacock mask, Kate snorted. 

The Tusk Trust Ball was the annual fundraiser for a conservation group that focused, rather amorphously, on Africa. For some reason, organizers had decided twenty years ago that it was more fun in a mask, so all of London was decked out in animal disguises, which heightened the ridiculousness far beyond that of a typical society party. It was also a favorite charity of Prince Edwin, Nick and Freddie’s hapless nonentity of an uncle, which made everyone take it seriously even as they spent thousands of pounds on a custom costume . Hintze Hall in the Natural History Museum had been utterly transformed, with savannah grass and sand and massive live oak trees brought in and strung up with fairy lights. A DJ spun Santigold over cocktail hour; dinner later would be by Zefferano, there would be awkward dancing and live music from the most recent winner of Britain’s Got Talent.

“Now, now,” Michael said sardonically, from the other side of Kate and through a classy cheetah mask. He sipped his lemongrass gin and tonic. “It is a theme.”

“ You can say that, your mask doesn’t have feathers,” Kate complained. She looked ravishing in a gold-and-teal sequined Reem Acra gown — it was more stately and princessy than Kate normally went, with long illusion sleeves, tons of sequins and beading, and only a strip of sheer around her midriff, but it had the most magnificent slit to show off her gams. But she sighed. “No, I’ll miss this.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t really,” Sophie mused. She shimmied a bit in her Jonathan Simkhai dress, which had a deep V was completely gold paillettes. She felt glam as a disco ball. “The parties in Milan are just so much less structured. So much freer and kinder and just plain fun .” She shot a knowing, sidelong glance at Kate. “But I’m sure that’s all you’ll miss.”

Sophie was proud of Kate; it would be hypocritical if she wasn’t. But Kate’s question from Lake Como — how do you know if you’re running toward something or away from something — had felt just so raw and vulnerable. And if you had to ask, you knew . Kate seemed in deep need of love and support, and honestly close to finding whatever that. Sophie was positive she just needed a push. It hadn’t been the sole reason she’d contacted Ben — Kate needed help from someone trusted at the hospital; Ant might have gone bonkers if he didn’t know — but it had certainly been part of her motivation. She imagined a wonderful reunion, a conversation, and honesty and perhaps some tough-but-right decisions. So she’d been surprised when, forty-eight hours later, Kate had told Sophie that he’d stuck around for twenty minutes, and she’d decided to take the job in New York after all. 

Something had clearly gone down at the hospital.  

“Oh I will miss you both, for sure,” Kate replied, but her voice faltered a bit. “Sterling, you’ll have to go artistic and do a Broadway play or some such.” 

He snorted. “In my agent’s  three-year plan, don’t worry. Can’t have this action movie making me look too commercial.”

Sophie laughed, then glanced around. She’d been sent by her collector to find a very wealthy Saudi Arabian princess rumored to be in attendance, who owned a Klimt that he had his eye on for his private collection. “I need to circulate,” she finally said, tearing herself away with a sigh. “Enjoy your mocking.” Kate and Michael sent her off with a wave. 

She moved between three groups, chatting amiably and trying to peer through all the damn headwear, when she heard — “Soph.” 

She turned. There, in a hunter-green suit and an antelope mask, was Benedict Bridgerton. “Ben,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t recognize you! I can’t believe you recognized me.” 

“Would recognize you anywhere, Soph.” He took a sip of his drink. “How’s Milan?”

She hadn’t seen him since Daff’s wedding; with the exception of Kate’s family emergency, she hadn’t even contacted him. It felt good, and necessary. Sophie loved love, wore her heart on her sleeve and was a diehard romantic, and she had never felt freer, stronger, happier, more like her life was her own to create. She had expected to fall a bit, and had pleasantly surprised herself by not stumbling. It was wonderful, to feel like you were doing something to thrive and not to survive. To feel assured that everything you had survived had forged you into who you were. 

“Great!” she exclaimed, and genuinely meant it. “Oh, gosh, it’s really fantastic, I’m loving it. Thanks so much for helping Kate the other week; I super appreciated it.” 

He shook his head, as if to signal it wasn’t a big whoop. “You’re a friend. She’s a friend. Ant’s my brother.” 

She took another sip through her straw. “Do you know … what happened between her and Ant?” 

He sighed. “Something but he won’t say anything. Mum threw him a party for his promotion yesterday; he and Kate seemed tense but nothing too salacious.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I even told him about Kate’s dad when I knew he was supposed to go to a surprise party of Siena’s.” Sophie’s eyes widened. “Thought it would at least be interesting , start a fight or cause a scene or something amusing at least . But all he said was that they fell asleep. They’re boring me.” Ant’s story was different from Kate’s. Fascinating .

She laughed. “Totally! And Kate’s just more committed than ever to go to New York,” she confirmed with a sigh. “I do worry about them.” 

Ben flicked a piece of mango out of his drink. “She’s stubborn; he’s inflexible. I’ve said this all along. Nobody can change them unless they want to be changed.” 

She sighed. It still felt sad, nevertheless. “True. Anyways.” She pitched a hand onto her hip. “How’s the latest collection coming?” Last she heard Ben was working on a series of mixed-media portraits about Artists at Work, and early concepts she’d seen included ballerinas, pastry masters, construction workers, models. 

“Still concepting but well. Hashing a lot of it out at Friday salons; you should come if you’re in town next week.” Behind his mask, his eyes flickered, a bit hopefully. 

“I fly out tomorrow,” she replied, her voice warm but her decline coming easily. She blinked. It was astonishing, to know him so well and feel such fondness for their past, but to also … feel no regret. “Fashion Week is starting. There’s simply so much to do! I only made it out to find an important contact of my patron’s.” 

“Who are you looking for?” 

“Princess Leila, from the House of Saud,” she replied. “A masquerade ball is hardly the best hunting ground.” She winced. “I mean, not literally.” This damn theme.

He snickered. “Well, when in ‘Africa.’” He rolled his eyes through the mask. “No, I saw her over there. Elephant mask. The one with the actual , moving trunk.” 

She laughed; there were at least two dozen elephant masks in a thirty-foot radius, so the direction was truly helpful. “Thank you, you’re the best,” she replied, finally zeroing in on the woman, whose face was completely obscured. “Gosh, I would have been searching for hours.” 

“Happy to help,” he replied. “Save me a dance later in return?”

She cocked her head. “Now you know that wouldn’t be a good idea,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “But it was good to run into you, Ben.” 

She chatted up  Princess Leila, who agreed to take a meeting but indicated that her price would be in the nine figures, then decided the conversation’s success — especially through the layers of feathers and animatronic accouterments — meant she’d earned another tusk-tini. Grabbing one, she scurried back over to Kate, who was now talking with — “Fran! El!” 

The two middle Bridgerton girls beamed. They did not really do the Society circuit yet, but the Tusk Ball was certainly a fun place to start. Fran wore a sherbert-orange Gucci that Sophie recognized as Daff’s, with a mask of butterflies flying off her cheekbones; El a vintage black velvet Dior with a snake mask. “Oh, it’s so good to see you too ,” Fran said to her. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie noticed Fran’s ex, John. 

“Yes, we’re extremely sorry our brothers are arseholes,” El added. “We miss you terribly.” 

Kate laughed, and patted her shoulder — Sophie realized that Kate probably missed Edwina quite a bit. She had scads of big-sister energy that needed direction. “Our fondness for both of you has nothing to do with the extent to which your brothers are being arseholes at the current moment,” she assured them. “You are welcome to text at any time.” 

Fran frowned. “Until you both leave next week.” 

“FaceTime!” Kate replied. “Or come visit.” 

“Surely you have the funds,” Sophie added wryly. “Come, we’ll go to Lake Como. Or Switzerland for skiing!” 

“You’re serious?” Fran asked, eyes sparkling.

“Absolutely.” 

“There you ladies are,” Sterling said from behind them.

Kate whirled around, and took a cocktail from him. “Lifesaver, Sterling,” she said with a smile. “Come now. Have you met these friends of ours? Eloise and Francesca Bridgerton.” 

He smiled, his eyes settling on Fran. “I haven’t. Pleasure.” 

Fran beamed back, clearly charmed. “Pleasure.” 

“Anthony? Are you in here?” Lady Violet, sounding thoroughly confused, called from the doorway. 

Ant popped his head out of the vault — it was modest, the size of a walk-in closet, behind a false panel in the library accessed only through eye-scan. “Yes. Sorry, Mother.” 

“I didn’t realize any of you were still here.” Brunch had ended at least an hour ago. She brushed some hair out of her eye before crossing her arms. “Is everything quite alright? What are you looking for?” 

He sighed. Most of the truly priceless valuables were in Coutts, but the family vault held deeds, originals of birth and marriage certificates, photos and mementos — and their more personal pieces of family jewelry. “I was looking for the Bridgerton ring, actually.” He looked down at the velvet tray with a half-dozen rings scattered across it, but not the one that his father had used to propose to his mother. He hadn’t wanted to discuss this with anyone in his family — he felt self-conscious and he’d far sooner get it over with and limit their opportunities for feedback. “Or just. Any family ring.” 

His mother’s eyebrows, normally affixed with Botox, rose straight to her hairline. “Oh.” She gestured to the couch. “Shall we sit?” 

Her tone made it clear there was no room to discuss, but he said, “Certainly,” anyways, like he had a choice. He moved to the couch, and put the tray of rings on the table. 

Violet sighed, patting the hand on his thigh, when he sat. “Now,” she said, composing herself. “Is this for … Miss Rosso? Or … Miss Sharma? Ben did mention she was single again, and I thought I heard Daff say you spent some time together?”

He sighed, stiffly. “Kate is moving to New York. We’ve discussed, maturely, and while we are … fond of each other, it simply isn’t to be. Siena and I … align.”

“But you’ve only been together for, what? Three months?” She wrinkled her nose. “Ant, you needn’t hold yourself to some sort of … deadline. I know I’ve put pressure on you to settle down and be more responsible, but you needn’t marry simply for my sake. And Ben and Col will let it go, I promise.” 

“It’s not that.” It wasn’t just that. “We have a history.” Even to him, it sounded wooden. “You and Papa dated for six months before you married.” 

“Well, I was pregnant,” she said delicately. “But more importantly, from the time your father brought me flowers for the opening night of The Sleeping Beauty — even when I was barely on stage for thirty seconds — I knew that I would marry him. It could be six minutes or six years or six decades and I would have said yes, every time.” She squeezed his fingers and looked at him, her eyes wise and wide. “Is that … is that how you feel about Siena?” 

“I … I want a … a family,” he said, his voice breaking and his resolve softening. He’d only admitted it to Kate, at least in this way, revealing his truest desires. “I love this one, I have taken care of this one, but I’d like … I’d like one of my own, too. I’m thirty-four. It is a good option. I shan’t be judged for taking this step.” 

Mum sighed. “Having a family with your father was the greatest gift, you all are my best achievement. Everyone thought we were mad, eight children … but we loved being parents. And I know —” here she sighed, deeply — “I know that, after your father died, I put so much on you, Anthony. Sometimes I think you still resent me for it.”

He pulled his hand back. “I did what needed to be done.” The words, for the first time, were said without any flintiness. They simply … were. 

“Because I didn’t, because I couldn’t, and you resent me,” she summarized.

“I was eighteen,” he said, “And I had just seen Papa die in front of me. The last thing he told me was  to take care of you, of the children.” He swallowed. “So I did. I put everything into that.” It felt so lacking, now. 

“I am sorry that I could not. And I’m grateful that you had so much of him in you, that you could.” Her voice was gentle. “This family, those children — they are all happy, confident, shockingly opinionated adults, and that’s because of what you took on. Anthony, I cannot understand what it was like to lose your father. But I do know what it was like to lose a true love. I was … forty-one. Not so much older than you, seven children. I had built a life around your father, and suddenly that was gone. Your father died, and my future, and my sense of self , and my … my love all the love that I had, died with him.” She swallowed. “I realize what that put on you. I remember all our fights too, Ant, and I’m — I’m sorry, truly. But I shan’t be resented for that.” 

“I do not resent you for mourning.” His voice was tight. “I resent you for letting me take everything on while you did so.” It had been selfish, and lonely, to let him dangle there, holding a baby, sorting out finances, settling the quarrels, while she cried in her room. “I resent you for the times you were mad at me for not being him.” Violet, more than anyone else, had been responsible for the Legend of Edmund. Had made it impossible for Ant to ever be anything but a failure. 

She was quiet. “And you should,” she said. “What you went through is something I’ll regret until I join him in our grave. But my greatest wish — my greatest wish is that you don’t carry that anger forward a generation. I should like that my love for your father, rather than my grief at his loss, be what you pass on through your life, and your example.” She looked at him searchingly. “You are the best of your father, Anthony, his heart and his dedication. You’re brilliant and you earned that company, you have earned the title of patriarch. I just cannot square all of that with settling down with a woman who seems genuinely decent, whom you seem fond of, but that you clearly cannot bring yourself to  love.” 

“As I said, I want a family, a relationship that works, children —” 

“Then have them, but have a life for yourself , too!” she exclaimed. “With a woman that you love, madly, who loves you back. Have the joy and not just the duty of a family.” She tugged his hand. “You have earned that. You can have that.” 

“I — can’t.” The words burst forth. They had many times in the past, but this time, they did so with brokenness, not defensiveness. He would love to have that. Truly.

“You can! You seem to have a woman you actually do care for, deeply! Why are you proposing to Siena and not Kate? I have seen you with both of them, Anthony. A mother knows.”

He thought back to the quiet of the hospital. The scene had been on a loop in his head for weeks. To the fact that Kate knew he said he loved her, and yet — nothing. “She doesn’t love me,” he finally admitted. “And, Mum — yes, I love her, but she … she could inherit Parkinson’s from her father. And when I found out … I handled it so, so poorly.” He put his head in his hands; he had kept her genetic risks entirely to himself. His shoulders began to shake. “A lifetime of apologies would not cover it.” 

It wasn’t the amount of love he had for Kate that was the complicating factor.

It was everything else. 

His mother closed her eyes as she put things together. “This was the Paris fight?” 

“Yes,” he said, composing himself. He massaged his thumb and index finger across his eyes, his signet ring glinting in the light. “And it wasn’t … It wasn’t that she might inherit it, you know? I don’t care if she gets sick one day. And I handled it badly, but I get how that would change a conversation around kids and such. She’s taken care of her appa for ten years, she knows what that’s like, I respect it. It was more … I couldn’t imagine losing her.” He swallowed, the words a rock in his throat. He hadn’t admitted this to anyone. He had barely admitted it to himself. “Not after you, not after Pa. To feel that way, after three months of not even dating? And so I … flipped a lid. Took it too far, turned it into an argument so we didn’t need a discussion. We’ve repaired a friendship, but she … she wants to take a job in New York, and I simply … cannot stop her.” It would be cruel to chase her or chain her. 

Mum was quiet. “So you’re terrified of losing her, and therefore you’re letting her go, potentially … fifty, or even sixty, years before you actually lose her? Without even trying? Really, trying?” 

He looked away at the piercing simplicity of the question. “You were destroyed when Papa died.” He swallowed. “Your grief nearly destroyed this family.” He spoke carefully, with little acrimony — it was a simple fact, though he empathized with it more clearly, now. “It changed the trajectory of my life, perhaps more so than his death.” His hand twitched. “You have no room to judge.” 

“All this talk of judgment. Nobody is judging you for all this; we just love you and we’re nosy and we want to know what you’re thinking. That’s why we ask.” She shifted closer and wrapped her arm around his back. For the first time in more than a decade, maybe two, he believed her. “I just want you to understand — even though I lost him so early, I would do it again. I would do it again in an instant, if I knew what was to come.” 

He scoffed, his old impressions of his mother returning. “You would put us all through that again? Knowing everything?” 

“It may sound selfish, but I truly feel that when you have a family, being a little selfish is the only way you keep your sanity. Be what they need.” Her eyes were distant, and Ant knew she was at least sixteen years in the past. “Loving your father … He was the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but it was hard, Anthony. Knowing someone, loving someone, accepting all their flaws and rough edges and stubborn parts. To show them yours, to ask for help, to cry , to fail, to be in the trenches with them, day-in and day-out. You disappoint them. You disappoint yourself. They disappoint you. It challenges not just your capabilities but your identity. You cannot possibly do it all for everyone.” 

That sounded very familiar, and he gave a small snort in recognition. She smiled at him, back in the moment, before continuing. “But the thing that made it worth it … made it bearable — was how much I truly, deeply, loved him.” There were tears in her eyes and, for the first time, he ached with grace for her, for what she had been through. For how completely human she was. “We had a real, true, worth-it love. And at the end of the day, that kind of love, that real love, is the only thing that matters. And you are worth that worth-it love, my darling.” 

“It doesn’t matter if I’m worth it ,” he responded, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He wiped at his eye; a few tears came off his cheek. “That simply doesn’t matter .” It didn’t make anything happen, he insisted to himself. “I thought I knew Kate and …” She didn’t want him, or his love. 

“It is the only thing that matters.” She gripped his shoulders, and used her fingers to turn his chin to her. “You will fail without it.” 

“Mum, please.” He stiffened, but she kept patting his back. 

“Anthony, you want a family. I think you would be a tremendous father, with that heart of yours. I would be so happy to see you that happy. To watch you comfort your own child, teach them things, laugh with them the way you did with your father.” She worried her lip. “But I … I have to imagine that trying to raise a family, to be that many things to so many people … to do it with someone that you do not love , love madly, love deeply, love vulnerably — I can only imagine that must be the loneliest fate in the world. Far lonelier than losing someone. Far lonelier than never loving at all.” 

He felt his heart clench, like he was disappointing her all over again. But in almost two decades, they’d never spoken about any of this, and the opportunity felt precious. Fragile. He pushed through. “Why didn’t you remarry, then? If it was so lonely?” Plenty of her friends were on their fourth marriage.

She managed a small, watery smile. “After your father died, so many people — both your grandmothers — urged me to remarry, and quickly. But I … I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine being that vulnerable with someone new. To negotiate all the intimacies of parenting together, to share myself in that way, to share his children in that way. I would always compare someone new to your father, but I also knew it would inevitably become me, and you children, walled off from him. And that was just … a worse fate than doing it alone.” She sniffed. “And so, I would do it again. Knowing that I’d lose him, knowing that I’d be alone for two decades, knowing how it would impact all of you. I regret how I handled all of it, but not that it happened.”

“This entire mess … I’ve just wanted to talk to him,” he confessed. “I feel like he’d know what to do or say and I’ve just mucked it all up.” 

She softened, wiped her own tears away. “He probably would, at least he would know how to say it to get through to you. I know my opinions don’t have much standing, after all this. And, you’ve always been the most independent of my children. Well, perhaps after Eloise.” He laughed. “I have no doubt that when you set your mind and your heart to something, you’ll be successful. I would just love it if you could have that love. Accept that love.” 

He sighed wistfully even as he shook his head. “Now that sounds like what he would say.” 

“Oh, sure, he’d just have much better advice on how to get you there.” She tucked some hair behind her ear though. “I do though …  I do have something to share.” She looked at him nervously. “Maybe surprising after this.”

“Oh?”

“I — It’s time I move on. This house is now too damn big . I plan on staying through Hy graduating uni, but then I shall be looking for new lodgings.”

“ What ?” Both were surprising — he had pictured his mother occupying Bridgerton House forever, banging around it even as Daff’s children grew up. 

“Everything I just talked about doing — soon there will be space, whether I like it or not.” She sighed, resolutely. “And I’m still young, Anthony. I’m barely fifty-seven. My nineteen years with your father are my most significant phase, my role as your mother my most important, but I could live for another thirty years.” She sighed. “Hell, I could even be ready for someone new.”

“What?” He couldn’t wrap his head around his mother having a companion, he wouldn’t have been able to prior to their conversation. 

She shook her head. “Or not, but I do think I will try. I can’t live with ghosts, but who knows what the future will bring. Regardless.” She fussed with a nonexistent spot of dirt on his collar. “It will be your house, to do what you wish. I hope you’re able to fill it with happy memories and a happy family.” She reached into her sweater, pulled out a long chain. The missing ring was on the base of it. 

She quickly unclasped the necklace, and let the ring roll off the chain. It was what he remembered: diamonds on gold, clustered around a pearl, in the shape of a flower. His father had had it designed for her, because, Ant remembered, Mum’s last ballet had been The Nutcracker, and she’d been in the Waltz of the Flowers. “Your father gave me this ring and it represents the happiest years of my life, our legacy in you, and your siblings. The best of him.” She put it in his palm. “I hope that if you propose, it brings you the same amount of happiness. Truly.” 

She kissed his temple, and stood. 

He stared at the ring.

Shoving a spoonful of yoghurt into her mouth before throwing the bowl on the coffee table, El stared at the Instagram post for probably the thirtieth time in the last two days. 

Following in the footsteps of his older brothers, our hapless hero first hooked up with our Mayfair-bred lass at the vodka-soaked wedding of the summer before doing her dirty just weeks later (literally). Five years abroad couldn’t help this Lost Bro find his purpose — or, apparently, his manners . C stands for C*cks*cker in this family, apparently. Don’t accept his apology flowers, ladies. 

The post was obviously about Col and Pen, confirming what El had known in her heart of hearts for weeks. It infuriated her, of course; she had known they were hooking up for weeks and purposefully keeping it from her. She had suspected it since Daff’s wedding weekend, Pen’s flight to the Mediterranean and Col’s active spiral make her more confident . Since Pen had returned, she’d been distant, preoccupied, often downright cold. Always at her mother’s. 

El had half a mind to storm over there and demand Pen apologize for sneaking around.  

But she couldn’t shake the sense that the timing … simply didn’t make sense. Their fling had ended weeks ago, and Whistledown normally had a much more sensitive sense of the news cycle. Her hundred thousands of followers demanded immediacy. All the other intel coming out of Daff’s wedding had been cycled through weeks ago. Even if Pen was objectively a nonentity, this should have come out sooner. 

The delay was especially strange because Pen — and Col, for that matter — typically barely rated a mention in Whistledown. Pru and Pippa and Lady Portia were mocked extensively. Ben, Ant, and Daff came up often. Freddie got a number of clever nods, even if they were so hidden they were virtually impossible to guess if you didn’t know. She and Fran weren’t mentioned but they simply didn’t rate a mention. They were boring, though certainly no more or less boring than plenty of minor acquaintances. And those minor acquaintances merited plenty of coverage.

She sighed. Nothing seemed to add up.

Unless.

She scrolled back up weeks , all the way back to Daff’s wedding and the dozens of posts about it. Whistledown was getting catty in her popularity: Nonsense about Freddie, a sharp comment about Siena’s attendance, speculation that a minor European princess’s food poisoning was actually anorexia.

There, in a roundup titled & Other Shenanigans, a comment: Across the rehearsal dinner dance floor, this wannabe purse designer — and one-time wannabe member of the Bridgerton clan — tried to charm her ugly bags’ way into Harrods by flirting with the princeling of this retail empire. 

She heard that comment before. 

Pen had made that comment before, while they were wandering around the cocktail hour, listening to the symphony and complaining about Ant.

Fucking balls.

Pen was Whistledown.

She bloody had to be. 

Eloise started scrolling up through the posts, noticing how many comments from Whistledown that sounded close to Pen’s more charming observations. It was like a recording in reverse, like reading a mystery from the last page backward. Everything was too neatly fitted, all of the sudden. She noticed many pieces of gossip that she’d heard while standing next to her best friend — only now filtered and distorted into something interesting. Understood, with sickening clarity, that she had inadvertently passed along some of these tips, particularly about her siblings. 

Realized that Pen had used those tips, had nudged photographers toward Ant and Kate and kept everyone updated on the twists and turns of Daff’s wedding planning and Ben’s decoupling with Sophie. El grew more furious by the minute. She felt taken in, and betrayed.

She bit her lip, so hard it cracked blood. While Pen had been on her list of ten names based on the cell phone digits, she hadn’t seriously considered it. It was ridiculous that Pen would do something so attention-seekingly out of character. And  Whistledown was many things — sharp, and biting, and extraordinarily clever and even wise. 

Pen was sweet, saccharine, goofy and a bit naive. Observant and loyal but often quirky, even hapless. She clumsily spilled drinks on herself and threw up when she gave a speech and was the last of their group to be kissed and cried in clubs when it got too late. She was not popular or in demand and El loved her all the more for it. The only people who had attended her sweet sixteen were the Mid-gertons. It felt inconceivable that this account could be her secret identity. 

But the lack of Col was perhaps the strongest piece of evidence that Pen was Whistledown. Why else would he get less coverage despite an existence as innocuously bro-ish as Fife’s and Cavendish’s? El had missed the significance of his absence because she had simply not known about Pen’s feelings, but now it seemed irrefutable. 

She sat back, with a sigh, gnawing a cuticle. Pen had been there when El got her first period; was the first person she came out to officially. They had always been the outsiders together, arms linked at every party, on the sidelines but also above it all. They were a team . 

The front door banged open, and El shrieked — she’d been completely distracted by her mounting anger. Probably Fran; Pen had been staying with her mum for days now. 

“Only little old me,” Pen said, with a tiny laugh, entering the living room. “Mum and Pippa are going to go spend Sasha’s money in Paris and I thought, why not join?” She headed toward the stairs. “So I’m just grabbing some things.” 

“You gave me a fright,” El said, hand still on her heart. She felt utterly through the looking glass, like she was the only person who realized they were in a horror movie. 

“Oy. I’m so sorry about that! How’ve you been? Come up and tell me as I pack.” 

So it can end up in Whistledown ? El thought contemptuously. But she followed her upstairs and as she entered the bedroom, said, “Alright. Is the shopping trip about Col?” 

Pen stopped by her bed. “Oh. You saw the Whistledown post?” Her voice was a bit dejected, but now El could hear a hint of practice in it. “I’m really sorry, El — I just got carried away and didn’t know how to tell you.” 

She froze, all thoughts of handling this calmly flying out the window. “About Col, or the fact that you’re Whistledown?” 

Pen looked up, truly surprised, and El realized that she had been faking it all along. El felt completely suckered. “What?” Pen squeaked out, then cleared her throat. “I mean. What?” But she was still, completely, sheet-white. 

El threw her phone on the bed. “That you’re Whistledown .” A strangle of fury caught in her throat, ripped through all her words. She could barely see straight. 

“I — nobody knows who she is!” Very quickly, Pen yanked a Longchamps leather duffel bag out of her closet, put it on her bed, rushed to her dresser. 

El stayed on her heels, hissed into her neck. “No, but you and her always seem to have the same thoughts. About Eleanor Westchester needing a home for her ugly purses. About Princess Alice’s eating disorders. About your mother’s fashion choices. About Sasha’s money . About Freddie’s dating life. You have the same last cell phone digit. And somehow, hours after they happen …” She went cold, realizing that she’d told Pen that Ant had picked up a ring for Siena. “ — Hours after I tell you, Ant’s girlfriends end up on it! And Ben and Daff — you leaked her dress designer which she’d promised to Vogue !”  As she shouted, not really realizing what she was doing, the cocktail of betrayal and fury curdled into something angrier, nastier, more vindictive by the minute. She had a strong feeling that Pen had not just lied but transgressed , breaking the bonds of society and of friendship and of Eloise, specifically. The secret identity felt intentional, felt like a threat. 

Pen’s face turned red and then purple, and she puffed up with a swell of … anger? embarrassment? Pride . — as she started to throw underwear in her bag. “Nothing about your siblings was ever mean ,” she said. “I made sure of that, on purpose .”

“Why did you even do this ?” El yelled back. “Start an anonymous, hurtful gossip blog, get hundreds of thousands of followers hanging onto your every word.” 

“It’s not hurtful, it’s clever ! Because I’m clever! Just because you never noticed doesn’t make it not true .” Pen’s voice crescendoed into something determined, and hard, and very loud. “You’re so obsessed with your causes and your dating life and your siblings and trying to be so much better than all of us, you barely noticed! And that’s not my fault!” 

“ Clever isn’t pouting when people don’t notice you and then starting a stupid gossip blog to make up for it! You’re a coward, Penelope. You’ve always wanted someone or something stronger to hide behind.” She huffed. “Nobody else liked you in real life before this. Not even you! Embarrassed by your whole tacky family and too shy to do anything about it.” 

“You just talk about holding a mirror up to society! At least I did something!” Pen was screaming now, blinding and beautiful and clear. “I did this , I went after Col! If one of us is the scared one, it’s you.” She threw several shirts and some dresses into the bag, headed into the bathroom for her toiletries. “You have all the privileges in the world and you can’t stop whinging about it. If you wanted to make a difference, you could . You just talk a grand game, instead.” 

El stared at her, suddenly incredibly cold. “You’re jealous, and you’re small, and you’ve spent all your life wanting what you can’t have. Wanting it so badly you start this to let your anonymous friends stand with you on the outside, looking in, at people actually living their lives.” She realized she was practically shaking, and she seized up straight. “You’re the pettiest, most pathetic person I’ve ever met, Penelope Jane Featherington.”  

Pen walked straight at her, toe to toe. Her nostrils were wet, puffing rapidly; her eyes small. They were both too far gone in anger, El knew, for this to resolve well. But she was delirious, she didn’t care. “You’re just mad that your trusty, little best friend did something interesting first.” She grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. 

“Go to Paris with your tacky family, and don’t come back here!” El yelled after her. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t !” Pen yelled back.

With a slam of the front door, she was gone. 

El flopped on the bed and started to cry. 

With a sigh and a careful swipe of his palms on his pants, Ant entered the swanky, intimate Italian place he’d asked Siena to meet him for dinner. It was around the corner from the British Museum, with only a handful of tables, and in a part of town where photographers and fans were unlikely to venture. One of their first dates, the first time around, had been there, so it was a bit of a sentimental choice for the conversation. 

He saw her sitting in the corner, quietly scrolling her phone. He smiled, and nodded, as he headed toward her. It had been a long few days at work, officially beginning his transition. And at night, he’d spent most of his time staring at the ring again. Contemplating the many versions of his future this could lead to. Practicing what he needed to say. 

But he’d made his decision. He knew what he needed to do; he was comfortable and clear and confident in his choices. 

He just needed to do it. 

“Bridge,” she said, with an easy grin, as he approached. “How’s Day Three of the gig? Make any multinational deals? Build any towers? Solve any HR crises?” 

He leaned down to give her a peck. “Evening, pet,” he replied, feeling deeply nervous. “No, mostly boring. Still on my ‘listening tour.’ I spoke with the IT team today about the org-wide lack of respect for laptop maintenance.” 

She laughed, genuinely delighted. “I ordered some wine,” she said, gesturing to the seat. “Join me.” 

They made it through the bread and olives, and then he drummed his fingers nervously on the table. “Siena, I know that when we started … all this up again, I said some pretty serious things about where I saw our future heading. And I know it’s only been a short time —”

At his words she threw her hands in front of her, eyes wide. “Ohmygod. Stop! Please!” She took a deep breath. “We should talk. I mean … I have something to say, first.” 

“Oh?” He steeled himself against his nerves. This was not according to plan. 

“I need to break up with you.” The words came out in a fast rush. “I just — I don’t think this is going to work, and I don’t want you to propose before I say anything else.” 

He leaned back with a big exhale, feeling a deep rush of affection and gratitude. “I wasn’t going to propose. I was going to break up with you,” he explained. “I was just trying to … be a gentleman about it. Let you down kindly.” His head spun, and he blinked rapidly. He had never expected to have this decision taken from him, but he found himself not minding. He was glad that he wouldn’t be breaking her heart in the process. 

He’d always liked that she knew the score. 

She sagged backwards with relief. “Ohhhh thank fuck,” she finally said, starting to laugh. 

He nodded, a bit stiffly. He agreed with the outcome, but her demonstrative relief was a bit offensive. “What, um — what led you to this conclusion?” 

She straightened. “I accepted the spot on the celebrity edition of Strictly Come Dancing today, and all I could think about was what sort of pained look you’d give me when I told you. I can’t live with a lifetime of pained looks and silent compromises.” She twisted a straw in her water. “And I … I care for you, but I want more than that for me. More than you leaving me at your birthday party, or only being able to open up to your siblings and other friends. And I want more for you . You’re too loyal, you’d just stay forever and be miserable. And I realized … you were never going to break it off, so it was up to me.” 

“Though I was going to break it off,” he replied. It was a bit stubborn, but he was also strangely proud of this fact. He wasn’t going to go through with it. He had changed his mind. 

“And I’m very proud of you,” she said, her voice teasing and fond. “And just … Bridge, I do want to thank you. It’s been the pits, these last few months. I’ve been spiraling trying to figure myself out and you offered some stability and a safe place to crash land and potentially stay, forever. It meant a lot.” He realized, perhaps for the first time, how easily he could have fallen in love with her. Perhaps even if they’d reconnected before he met Kate — they almost worked; under slightly different circumstances, they’d fit instead of merely align. They were truly a missed connection, two pieces that should have fit, and did not. 

“I meant it. There was nothing … disingenuous.” 

“I know. You were honest, we both were. But you can’t give me what I want, and I’m not what you need. Hell, we’re safe for each other, Ant! So safe and small. I don’t do safe and small. I deserve obsession .” He smiled. That was the Siena he had dated last year. Blowing her bangs out of her face, she continued, “You were lost, I was wounded, it was a good place to regroup. It’s been great to heal, but I have to live.” She looked at him as she scratched at her ear. “And I’d like for you to, as well, frankly.” 

He smiled, as the waiter dropped their dishes off. Should they even stay? But Siena dug in, clearly perfectly happy for one last bite together. “I don’t have as much experience in that as you do, but I’d like to do that as well.” 

“I am happy to give tips, but step one is always be honest with what you’re feeling. I know you hate that.” She gave him a knowing look.

He smirked at the well-placed jab. A year ago, he would have thought her nuts. Now he saw the point. “I don’t, I’m just … out of practice.” 

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of water. “Congenitally so. Your whole lot — I can’t date inbred-aristo again. There’s nothing wrong with wanting things.” 

“So what do you want next, then? Trying this whole pop-star career?” He dunked some bread into the vodka sauce. For the first time since June, he was just genuinely enjoying himself in the moment with her.

He regretted that it had taken him so long to figure himself out. 

“Maybe, though I’ve done that.” Contemplatively, she ran a thumb under her jaw. “I can do more. I just realized that I let the record label define me.” She took a long sip of water, then hummed. “You know, I was convinced you were going to propose. What changed your mind? Got sick of me trying to read your chart?” 

He laughed. “No, though I’m not sure I’ll ever hear the word ‘Virgo’ without thinking of you,” he responded. 

She shook her head. “You know, I really can’t believe I threw a surprise party for a Virgo. The beginning of the end.” 

He picked at the pasta, serious again. “No, I just … I appreciate where we aligned, I saw there were ways that we could work well together, tried to tell myself those ways were preferable and I just … knew it would do us both a disservice to coach ourselves into this, long-term. Best to get out now, before we do some lasting emotional damage.” He gave her a small smile. If he’d learned anything in the last few months, it was how naturally and inadvertently intimacy could spring up, how exhausting it could be. After a certain point, there would have been no way out but through, and it would have been a brutal, beautiful mess.  

He accepted Kate was not in his future, but nor could he truly make a decision merely based on pragmatism and timing. And certainly not now, after Kate had knocked his world off its axis, or after the last six months of trying and failing and triumphing with his friends and family. Because Nick was right that he needed a therapist; Ben was right that he needed to change his perspective; Si was right that a relationship should feel elemental and easy; Daff was right that true love came in many forms; his mother was right that a loveless partnership was perhaps the worst fate of all. 

Siena took a last bite of her pasta and signaled to the waitress to come for her half-empty plate. “I agree. We both deserve better, and I’m going to go get it.” And he knew, in that moment, that she absolutely would. She smiled as the plate was cleared, finished off her glass of wine. I’ve never stopped betting on myself, and I’m not going to stop doing so now. You shouldn’t either.” She shrugged her coat on, and leaned over to give him a kiss goodbye. “Have the best life, Bridge.” 

His pasta was only half-done and he was still hungry, so he sat there, eating slowly. The waitress brought him another glass of wine, and then a dessert, with a quiet gratis — clearly, she thought he’d been dumped. He ate the cheesecake, left a three hundred percent tip, and decided, even though he’d need to come back for the Jag tomorrow, to walk the mile and a half home.

London was merry and crisp, with bundled-up patrons still deigning to dine outside, refusing to let go of the last gasps of summer. Their merriness reverberated in his ears, but he was largely deep in thought. He was alone among so many people, but he did not feel lonely. 

For the first time since he was eighteen, the thought of not knowing what would happen next brought peace, not anxiety. He knew in closing this chapter, he would clearly not hit his timeframe, and he might end up back on the damn Tatler list next year. But while he had lost Siena to reality and Kate to New York, he had not lost everything: he had his job, and a family he loved, and the world’s most solid group of mates. He had time, and felt it for the first time ever. He didn’t know if he would marry or have children — though certainly he still wanted to, would try to work toward that. But he knew that that was what he wanted, and he knew he could try, and fail, and try again along that way. He would figure it out. His family would be OK. He would be OK. He felt lighter; he felt less resentment than he had in years. If anything, he felt … grateful. 

He stopped under a streetlight, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. He thought of his father — of course, he often thought of his father. But for the first time in ages, it felt simple: not fraught, not cut with pain, not angry, not lost, not unworthy, not fearful, not wanting. He remembered something Lady Danbury had told him in the hazy days after the funeral — this is hard and it’s horrible, but it’s simply a clearer version of the world. Boys have lost their fathers for millennia, after all — it’s the way that it should be, in fact . He didn’t remember what he said, but he was positive it had been yelled.

Love became grief became love. An endless, aching, hopeful, painful ribbon through time. 

He exhaled.  

He kept walking. 

Eventually he realized that he had wandered off course, found himself on a side street he’d never seen before. He looked up to orient himself, and found himself, improbably, in front of a pub named Edmund’s. 

He texted Ben, Nick, and Si to see if they could join him, and opened the door. A drink with friends sounded just about perfect. 

Chapter Text

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her — Notting Hill

“Didi!” Edwina’s voice was bright, crisp, and unexpectedly exuberant. Out of sheer surprise, Kate dropped her bags — the Chloe tote she used for work and the Le Pliage she used for Pilates that morning — on the floor, and stared as her sister practically jogged across the living room and foyer to her. “I’m so glad to see you.” 

Still stunned, Kate folded Eddie into her arms. “Bon,” she murmured. She closed her eyes for a second, drinking in the familiar weight and smell of her favorite sister. “Welcome home.” Pulling away, she looked around for Mary. “Did you take an uber?” She realized she didn’t even know when Edwina’s plane landed. And frankly, she’d expected her to stay out in Beaconsfield with their parents, avoid Kate all together. 

But Edwina had always been braver than Kate.

“Yup!” Edwina chirped, stepping back. “Super easy.” She looked nervous, for the first time. “And, you know, easy flight in, too.” She started to pick at her cuticles, and Kate quelled the urge to remind her to cut it out. 

Instead she nodded, balling her own fists gently. “I’m very glad. You, uh, you played so well this week.” Edwina had made it, very respectably, to the Round of 16 at the US Open, the second-youngest player in that round. Since the loss at Wimbledon, she’d played in every tournament and rebounded from 91st to 57th in the rankings — by all accounts, a steady US Open season. Sports journalists had decided she was, ultimately, on the rise, a promising player who had perhaps lucked into a too-early Slam but nevertheless was well positioned for a long career. 

Eddie beamed. “Thanks! It was a little touch and go in the third but it really did settle, didn’t it?” 

Kate nodded again. “Yes, it did. I’m very proud.” 

With a big, nervous exhale Edwina started walking through the house to the kitchen. “And, uh, I was so glad you were able to get to Appa last week. Mum said you flew back from Italy and everything.” She poured herself a glass of water. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You were in the middle of a tournament. Don’t apologize.” The urge to comfort Edwina had not abated. “By the time I showed up, he was just resting comfortably and it was a waiting game. Mum had it all under control.” 

Edwina gave her a small smirk, and slid the glass to Kate. “ Mum had it under control? I never thought I would have seen the day.” 

Kate couldn’t yet find it funny. “I know that I have been a little —”

“Overbearing? Type-A?” Eddie’s voice was light and joking. “I didn’t mean to make fun, didi, just make light. I’m sorry. I’m glad you were both able to get there; sometimes it sucks being on Tour and traveling so much, that’s all.” She took a sip of water. “No need for pity or comfort. Just facts.” 

“Yes,” Kate affirmed with a nod. “Noted.” She finished the water.

It was strange and wonderful to be in the kitchen with Edwina — wonderful because it truly felt as if she’d simply been on a long weekend, strange because it also felt like entirely new territory for them both. Kate wanted, badly, to hear about everything Edwina had been up to; she also didn’t want to start a fight, and wasn’t sure she was ready for an apology. “How’s Tour going overall?” she finally asked. 

“Good, I think,” Edwina said, chewing the side of her lip as she considered. “Scary, sometimes. I have to remind myself you want this more than you fear this , a lot. That’s from the new coach. But I’m … I’m doing it. I just need to remind myself of that quite a lot.” She nodded. “How is … everything? Mum has been … a little quiet.” 

“Oh, it’s just fine. Michael Sterling invited me to St. Tropez with him, Freddie, Bex and Nick, that’s a whole story.” She took a sip of his water. “I think I may have … misjudged Freddie.” She drummed her fingers on the table as Edwina’s eyes widened in an oh interesting look. “Now, are you coming out to dinner with Mum and Appa? Or are you too jet-lagged?” Tomorrow would be an important day; they were going to tour three nursing homes. After Appa’s release from the hospital, Mum had called Dr. Shah for a list of recommended facilities, which she had then sent to Kate. Kate had spent an hour walking her through the probable costs as well as the expected income from the sale and long-term rental — but Mum had handled most of the research, made phone calls to the facilities to arrange visits, even filled out a budget template for herself (that Kate had provided, but still).  

“Yes, definitely coming,” she replied, clearly happy for the lighter territory. “Especially since Mum said the house was sold? So she’s moving too.” 

“Yes, she signed the contract this week.” 

“She said … Bridgerton Group bought it?” Edwina’s voice was carefully innocent. “That Ant came to the hospital and helped and then you two came up with a good deal?” 

Kate’s stomach knotted. “Yes, that’s more or less the story,” she finally said, her voice as bland as possible. “Doesn’t sound like she’s been quiet.” 

“Well, that one feels awfully important,” Edwina countered. “So are you two …” 

“No. We’re friends. Good friends.” She finished her water. “He’s proposing to Siena Rosso, and I’m moving to New York.”

She stood to change for dinner.

It was truly a lovely time at home — “just us four, all together again,” as Appa said brightly. Mum had made Edwina’s and Appa’s favorite korma, and Eddie regaled them with stories about American celebrity run-ins at the Open before completely trouncing everyone at chess. Their parents were excellent buffers for the still-wounded sisters, always ready with a quip or question or need for help. And then Eddie even fell asleep in the car home — perfection. 

Kate, in fact, assumed she’d gone straight to bed, and so was completely surprised when Edwina knocked on her doorframe as she contemplated what to pack for New York and her interview. “May I come in?” she asked, quietly. 

“Of … of course!” she said, voice bright and false, clearing off a portion of the bed. “We should actually talk — I’ve been thinking, once I leave for New York, what if Mum moved in here? The mortgage is reasonable —” 

“Are you really going to New York?” Edwina interrupted, astonished. 

“I — it’s a dream job,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?” She knew it sounded defensive.

Edwina picked at a throw pillow. “I would like to apologize, didi — not for what I said at Wimbledon, but when and how I said it. I was upset and … that was what drove me to it.” 

“You had lost, it doesn’t matter, really.” 

“It does though,” Edwina pushed through insistently. “Didi it does, and I won’t have you saying otherwise. And I said it badly, and I hurt you.” 

“I’m so sorry, bon,” she burst out. “I was trying to help and protect you and I realize — I realize I was going about it in such a terrible way. You didn’t need protection, and I am so, so sorry if I made you doubt your capabilities. Your strength.” 

“I’m sorry too!” Edwina exclaimed, flouncing back on the pillows. “I just … until Anthony called me, I had no idea you were still seeing him. Let alone that it was serious enough that he would want to come to Paris and hold your hand during matches. And then after, when you were so clearly heartbroken … I was so mad that you had this whole part of you I didn’t know about. Because you were protecting me. Because you felt that you had to protect me. And I was … a little bit jealous that you trusted him with that part of you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Kate muttered.

“Isn’t that more significant?!” Edwina exclaimed. “I just wanted to know you, that’s all. Ideally the whole brave, funny, loyal, intelligent person that I know you are.” She dropped her eyes to her lap. “And I realized I did not, and that’s how it came out.” She looked back at Kate, pinning her to the truth. “But like, do you even know that person? Or have you just been taking care of us for too long? Of me?” 

She sighed, collapsing back onto the bed next to Edwina. “The loyal one, yes. The intelligent one, of course. Funny, some days. Brave? Absolutely no idea.” She sighed. “Bon … losing Amma, Mum coming into that loss — I know it feels frustrating, like we are all overprotective of you, but it is a bit of a gift. We were all hurting, mourning, circling a loss in different ways, until you. You were our light.” She still remembered the first time she’d held Edwina, joy returning to her life, the hazy chapter of grief and change settling into a better future. The peace she felt.

“Do you remember Amma?” 

“No.” Kate shook her head. “Only her absence, and associations. I … I hate rainstorms, because of her accident. Will still get panic attacks when it’s really storming.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Edwina’s voice was soft. 

Kate inhaled, something deep inside that she didn’t even know was fixed crumbling. “I didn’t tell you. Not out of malice, but you were innocent and I … I wanted you to still have that. Not my burdens.” 

“Maybe when I was younger, but now I’ve seen things. On Tour, all the time.” 

Kate laughed — not meanly, she hoped. “Edwina, even the fact that you played tennis … with me, Appa was so strict. And Mum worried I would lose my heritage. I needed to be the dutiful Indian daughter, learn Hindi and Marathi and Sanskrit and Tamil, get perfect grades … They coddled you. You spent summers at tennis camp, went to sleepovers, flunked geography class. When I had to choose school or tennis for you, we indulged you. It was more relaxed, happy. Let you do what you love, be a little selfish in that way. It is a good thing, bon. I’m telling you this so that you can try and understand where I’m coming from.” 

“That’s not all true, though,” Edwina cut in, quiet but persistent. “I was eleven when Appa was diagnosed. It’s the same, no, but I spent my teen years watching him fly off to New York for treatment, had to be around him when he was depressed about quitting his job. And it might not be traditional but it was hard work, to get to where I am.” Her chin jutted out. “It is different but it’s no less important. And I … I deserve that work to be recognized in this family. Not to be dismissed or treated like I’m fragile or silly.” 

Kate tucked a strand of Edwina’s hair behind her shoulder, realizing just how short she’d sold her strong, vulnerable sister. She trailed her hand down Edwina’s arm to her hand, clasped it gently. “I know. I’m so, so sorry. Trust me, this is a me issue, not you. Please forgive me.” 

“Of course.” Edwina’s eyes shone, and she moved forward to hug her sister tightly. All benediction, all grace. “Kate, you’re my favorite person in the world. You always have been. Please … don’t shut me out. And don’t shut yourself out of life, either.” She grasped Kate’s hand. “I can support you, I can listen, I promise. Just … be real with me.” She looked down, again. “What happened with Anthony?” 

She turned to snuggle her head into Edwina’s smaller shoulder. “Everything,” she snorted. “We were, ah, revenge-dating, when you left. One-upmanship.” 

Edwina cackled. “You finally get rid of Dorset?” 

“He was lovely,” she protested.

Eddie snorted. “Exactly what Freddie said.” 

“We’ll return to that,” she warned. “No … we — bon, even before Paris, we were a trainwreck. It crashed in Paris. We’re both … headstrong, and not good at sharing. We’re friends now —” she started to look beyond Edwina before she confessed — “We won’t be be forever but at least we don’t hate each other. He’s helping with Appa, which is … bittersweet. I’m grateful.”

“You broke up with Tom, is Anthony still dating Sienna?”

She nodded. “I told him to propose to her.” 

“Are you insane!” Edwina shoved her shoulder. “You love him! Don’t you dare pretend you don’t.” 

“This isn’t some sort of romantic book, bon. Things don’t always work out how you hope.” She took a deep breath. “We have different visions for the future,” she repeated. “I have this job offer; he wants to settle down. And more relationships fail than last. Not every story is a love story.” 

Edwina’s eyes searched hers. “True, but why can’t this be one?” 

Tears welled in her eyes. She suddenly felt so much older than Edwina, and fought the urge to say so. Edwina’s passionate, romantic, slightly self-righteous streak was one of her best qualities. “I do love him, which is why I told him to get married,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s the love story.” 

Edwina, very reluctantly, gave her a long hug. “Maybe. You do … after Amma … you do believe that a story can have a happy ending, though, right?” 

Col yawned, pressing his fingers against his temple to try and massage away his head-splitting hangover. Friday night had involved Freddie and the boys and a private club in Soho, and ended as the sun cracked through the sky. Fife and Cavendish, both of whom had done way too much blow, basically needed to be carried out. 

He was truly getting too old for this bollocks. 

“Col,” Ant said, leaning into the doorway. He was already dressed in black jeans and a cashmere quarter-zip, and Col reckoned that he had probably already worked out — likely a run; he and Kate seemed on the outs — already this morning. His hair was wet and he looked serious, but he also looked … light. Chipper. He had almost looked relaxed — for Ant — since the Siena breakup, which felt truly astounding and unfair, given that Colin felt like his life was falling apart at the seams. “Since Ben’s in Riyadh I thought we could skip fencing and just grab brunch.” He raised an eyebrow. “You look like you could do with a full English, quite honestly.” 

Colin groaned and rolled his head into his pillow. “How are you less wrecked than me?” he called through the down feathers. Through the window, the September sun was borderline cruel.

“Because, dear brother, I have perspective , and you have a hangover.” He banged a fist on the doorframe. Col squawked at the noise. “Up up. Let’s go. Seize the day.” 

Twenty minutes later, Col was still yawning as they wandered into Ceccone’s. By the time he got his bloody Mary, Ant staring at him expectantly, arms folded in front of him, and he got the distinct feeling that he’d been walked straight into a summoning. “What’s up?” he asked, covering another yawn with his elbow. He didn’t think he’d fucked up too much recently, though perhaps Fran had found out about Pen and told Ant. “I mean. This is fun.” His voice sounded weak, which was pathetic; he usually tried to hide how much he honestly liked hanging out with Ant. Wanted him to like him.  

Ant snorted. “Drink your drink and sober up.” 

“It feels like you have some ulterior motive,” he admitted, still too groggy to be on his guard. 

Ant made a slight grimace, then said, “Well, yes, but also good news, I think. I spoke with the board, my special projects team, and the VP for hospitality. As one of my first moves as president of BG I’m going to make an investment in your idea. We’re purchasing hostels in five cities to start — Sydney, Capetown, Amsterdam, Tokyo, and Athens. And I’ve contracted with Mondrich, like you suggested — he’ll be sourcing and weighing in on nightclubs and such. But we’ll need to source a local network and, importantly, develop content.” He took a bite of beans. “And that’s where you come in.” 

“What?” he choked on a sausage. 

“We’d like you to be the voice and the face, so to speak,” Ant said. “Have a big role, develop the vision, the, ah, brand. Produce the content, write the posts, show up in the videos. We’ll give you a title, Director of Strategic Content, for now. We need a full brand and business plan behind the initiative before we go public. For now, it’s the b2b project, internally. Lowercase B, apparently that’s important to the brand people.” He rolled his eyes, seemingly at their frivolity. 

Col, stunned, simply gaped at Ant. He could not process his words. “Me?” 

“Naturally. It’s your idea and we’re doing it to gain access to the youth market. You’re a youth. Well. An oldish youth.” He grinned and bit a piece of egg. “We want to start with producing welcome videos for each city, welcome tours. Gin up excitement before launch.” He shook his fork. “The special projects team and communications team have the specifics, will do the strategy, but it’s a big investment. We want this to succeed. And I think you’re the man for the job.” 

“ Me ?” 

Ant raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Absolutely.” He leaned forward. “Colin, I wouldn’t suggest it if I did not know you would be amazing at this. It was a good idea and you’re the man to run with it.” 

And Col did know that, absolutely — it was one of the kindest things about Ant, that he would absolutely not bullshit you. You earned any praise or respect you got from Ant; you always knew where you stood.  “You want me to — film travel videos and write about new cities and build the local networks?” 

“Yes.” Ant nodded, seemingly relieved he finally got it. He felt, yet again, quite slow. “And we want you to leave Wednesday. Get to Tokyo to start. You’ll be working with a team from Bridgerton Asia.” 

“Like, in five days?” He blinked, still feeling stupid.

“Colin,” Ant said, exasperated. “Am I speaking French?” 

“No, I’m just processing. It’s a lot to take in.” He put his head on his hands. “The board said yes?”

“Yes, we approved a twenty-five million pound investment. Simon’s old VC is putting in fifteen.  Mondrich is putting in another ten.” He squinted. “Are you … OK, brother?” 

“I … yeah.” 

“You want to talk?”

“No.” 

Ant now, honest to god, looked concerned. Oh, fuckity fuck. “You want this?” 

Col. paused. It sounded incredible. A vote of confidence from Ant and and Si and Mondrich and the board, millions of pounds to play with, dozens of potential cities to experience and enjoy. He had missed traveling; the thought of decamping to Tokyo for months to start developing content and partnerships sounded … like a relief, honestly. He’d have a purpose, a place amongst his many siblings. It already felt gratifying. 

And for better or worse, a break from Pen. The whole damn thing tugged at him, persistently, uncomfortably. She’d been in the wind since her kiss-off in the pub a few weeks ago — first at home with her family, then France, allegedly, now in Dublin, if her social media was to be believed. She had responded to zero of his texts and messages, said nothing when he sent her flowers, chocolates, jewelry, or scented candles (Fran, bewildered, had texted him to ask if he was dying, so he stopped). 

It felt shitty, to leave so abruptly, with the two of them so far on the outs. The more he sat with it, the more he understood how deeply he had fucked up. He would like to fix it. 

But he’d also like to do this. 

He maybe needed to do this if he wanted to fix that. 

He nodded. “I do. I really want this.” 

Ant grinned. “I thought so. And … I’m proud of you, Col.” 

Col felt a glow spread, from the inside out. “Thanks,” he said. “I really leave Wednesday?” 

“Yeah. We’ll launch next spring, I think. Just in time for summer backpacking season. Say your goodbyes, you’ll be on the road till then.” 

Col stared at his plate of eggs, and nodded decisively. 

“Alright.” Mary clapped her hands, before steering Appa’s wheelchair to a shady spot on the path. He was now in it most of the time; it was difficult but he looked so much more relaxed, now that he didn’t need to fight  the walker. “Family discussion time. What do we think?” 

With a nod, Kate settled onto a carved concrete bench, sliding her Jil Sander knit minidress under her bum. She squinted into the sun and wished she’d brought shades. Edwina took a seat next to Kate, curved her legs under her. She looked adorable in a Nike kit, bright white runners, and a high pony under a bomber jacket. “Well, for starters. It’s lovely. Like, gorgeous .” 

Kate scratched at her ear. “Yes. Agreed. It’s lovely.” 

They were sitting in the small courtyard of a care facility named St. Mark’s, housed in a converted church and cloisters. It was quite close to the Lord’s Cricket grounds if Appa wanted to catch a game, a quarter-mile from the home that Edwina and Kate had purchased. It had a lovely, homey presence — you couldn’t tell immediately upon entering that it had a specific caregiving mission. Each of the resident’s rooms were in one of the converted nun’s quarters, cozy but with everything they might need, and directly overlooking the arcade and the sumptuous courtyard gardens. Every room was a single, and each felt like a true apartment, not a hospital room — they had plants and pictures and real furniture and spots of personality. At the northwest corner, the small church itself served as the social spaces, with a library and a small non-denominational chapel and a rec room and a dining room and an open space for chatting with friends and family and watching the telly. Residents ate dinner in the glow of the stained-glass windows, and while walking in, Kate had paused to read the social calendar: a tarot reader, a pianist, a book club, a local acting troupe were all on the agenda. The old bells chimed a new kitschy song every hour — at two PM, they’d rang out with When I’m Sixty-Four.

But more importantly, the staff felt deeply caring and competent. They specialized in long-term non-dementia neurological cases like Appa’s; plenty of residents had MS or PD and ALS, and patients were similarly aged, with similar backgrounds . Kate had spoken to an Oxford professor, a former QC, a deputy home secretary, and a very astute psychiatrist. The head of the place was sharp, used to family members like Kate scrutinizing her. The food was delicious, the residents engaging, the whole place much more vibrant than Kate had honestly expected. It was spry, active, hardly the asylum she had feared.

It was expensive, of course — nothing NHS about it — but with the sale of the home and the rental income, with Mary moving into their home, they could afford it easily. 

It was a relief.

Mary smiled. “Yes, it’s lovely. But do we … like the staff? Trust them? Find the other residents kind? Could we see ourselves coming here to visit?” She looked nervous, a bit, playing the role of matriarch, Kate noticed. 

Edwina patted their father’s shoulder. “What do we think, Appa?” 

He nodded, and smiled. “I suspect too many fans of England when cricket starts. But the staff know what they are doing. It’s run to the standards I would run a floor.” He stared at a flowering tree. “And I will admit — the residents seem sharper than I had thought.” 

“You mean, there will be less opportunity to get bored and cantankerous,” Kate teased. Their father was too smart for his own good; she worried about his acuity too, if he was around people much worse off cognitively than he was. 

“Absolutely.I could see you organizing everyone into a chess club,” Eddie added with a laugh. 

“Now that sounds like a good idea,” he agreed. “Kathani. What do you think?” 

“I — it’s your decision, Appa.” 

“I’d like your thoughts, beta.”

She looked around, contemplating, then squeezed his hand. It was a peaceful space, and for the first time since he came home, she didn’t feel dread for his future. “I think you could be happy here, Appa. And I’d love to visit you when I’m back from New York.” 

Mary shook her head. “I know you say the job is amazing; I’m just sad we’re losing you so soon after we got you back.” 

“You said to chase my dreams and figure out what I want!” she exclaimed. “And not to make decisions about what you all need.” Truly this had all started with Mary and all her hopes for burned pots and ice-skating lessons. 

“Of course, and the job sounds wonderful for you. I just thought after the test came back negative —”

Edwina’s neck whipped around. “You took the test, Kate?” 

“Yes but —” 

“— Negative!” 

“Edwina —” 

“— Did you talk to Anthony about this and what it means before you sent him off?” 

“Of course not —” 

Appa chortled. “You had hours to spend canoodling with him in the hospital and yet you didn’t mention this?” 

“Nikhil —”

“What!” 

“You saw that?!?”

“I’m sick, not dead,” he replied loftily, with a wave of the hand. He looked distinctly delighted at everyone’s responses. 

“So he doesn’t know and you made this decision for him?” Edwina was a dog with a bone and an encyclopedic knowledge of romantic comedies. 

“He also told her he loved her,” Appa informed the group. “She pretended to be asleep.” 

“Appa, you’re a regular Whistledown!” Edwina marveled, impressed. 

Kate, though, glared at her father. “You are very troublesome, old man.” 

“So you just don’t want to be with him then,” Mary summarized a possible version kindly. “Because he just doesn’t know what he wants, and you know you want this job. Different paths, bad timing.” 

“Well, no, no, not really,” Kate stammered. She closed her eyes with a sigh, and wished for the dirt to swallow her up. When she opened them and still saw her family’s wide, expectant eyes, she grumbled, “Can’t a twenty-eight year old Oxford grad have some secrets?” 

“So there is a secret!” Edwina exclaimed, with the tenacity of opposing counsel. She was practically bouncing on her heels with delight. “Why does your job offer and him wanting to settle down mean nothing works? Especially since you’re negative for the gene.” 

“Edwina, it’s OK if she doesn’t want children,” Mary interjected. “If you’re not on the same page about your boundaries, you can’t be partners, long-term.” 

“It’s not that. It’s that I don’t know if I want kids,” she blurted out. “I mean, maybe. But it’s not something that’s been on the plan, and I don’t want to decide I want them, or that lifestyle, just because I … love someone who does.” 

“Oh.” Mary blinked. “Well, that’s quite different, I should think.” 

“What do you mean?” Kate’s brow furrowed. “I’m not going to change my mind for a man.” 

“Kate, stop conflating doing something you don’t want with being open to something you didn’t plan .” She blew bangs out of her face, softened her tone. “I was a teacher, for eight years, before I met your father. And every day I was grateful to send all the students home to their families. I didn’t automatically want kids; I had so many in my life already. But then I met your father —” She touched his shoulder, and he reached a shaky hand up to pat her fingers — “and, well, he came with you. And I decided with him, it sounded nice. For the first time. And we had you.” She smiled over at Edwina. “And you know, we ended up only being able to have one child. I couldn’t pin a grand plan on a person. That’s just a recipe for disappointment. It was more about being curious about what he wanted, and about what I wanted, and being on the same team as we figured it out.” 

“And even if you plan — I didn’t marry your amma expecting her to be killed within eight years,” Appa added. His eyes were all concern and kindness.  “And I didn’t marry your mum thinking that I’d be in this chair, living in this home, for my last thirty years. It is never about your plans or your specific future. It is more about, is this a person I can trust when I have something unexpected happen? You’re never going to be fully ready or have all the answers. You must be confident you’re making a good decision. But nor can you wait a lifetime before you go.” It was, perhaps, the firmest advice she’d ever heard her father give. 

“If I’ve learned anything this year —” Edwina, now bored enough by her sister to be back on her phone — “it’s that thinking about the what-ifs hurts you more than just being in the moment and just doing your best.” 

Mary smiled. “Quite right, Edwina.” Eddie, always open to a compliment, preened under the praise. 

Kate rested her eyes on her hand, feeling both quite overwhelmed with the force of her family’s opinions, and caught in the tension between what she wanted and something that felt vastly larger than she could handle. She and Ant had not even dated, had not even been together, for just three months — and everyone, including her, was operating from the reflexive certainty that of course feelings about children and continents were on the table. After twelve weeks as a budding something, and fourteen fumbling toward friendship. 

She was a deeply rational person, and very capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, strategically analyzing the outcomes of any situation. But she was less clear on understanding her feelings, knowing what she wanted. There was not just her own voice but her family’s, and Sophie’s, and Ant’s, and his family’s, all knocking around in her head, all louder than her own voice, all persuasive, all of whom she didn’t want to let down. The overwhelming effect was that the pressure felt immensely ratched up. Every option felt both definitive and definitional. Every choice was a thousand of them, and it was tough to separate the signal from the noise, to orient to a particular set of facts. 

Except. 

She’d known since May that she loved him.

And she’d known for two weeks that he loved her too. 

But still.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally said, dully. Trying desperately to close off the conversation. “He’s proposing to Siena. He probably already did.” When Ant made decisions, he made decisions.

Edwina, though, was on her phone, scrolling as though already bored by her sister’s drama. “I don’t think that’s true ,” she said. Kate bit back an irritated comment about Edwina’s phone-addicted, drama-addicted tendencies. “At least not according to Whistledown.” 

“Who’s that?” Mum asked.

“A silly, fake gossip Instagram,” Kate explained. “Besides — she’s gotten nastier lately. I think she’s out of sources. Just making stuff up.” There had been awful stuff about Col, Freddie, even Michael, in the past few weeks. 

“She says that London’s Most Eligible man is back on the market — that’s Ant, Mum — and that third time wasn’t the charm for a proposal. She got the number wrong but if she’s right, he’s single .” Kate’s heart soared, a bit stupidly, as Edwina dropped her phone down and looked straight at her. “So you’ll talk to him.” 

Kate simply put her head in her arms again, and wondered, what are my options ?

“ — And now that Clyvedon is in a trust, we’re about to hire the executive director, and start designing the programming there,” Daff announced excitedly to the full family. She knew she was forcing everyone to pay attention to her pronouncements, just a little, but they’d also had a whole month to talk amongst themselves when she and Si were on their honeymoon. And all they’d done, from what she could tell, was fuck up their own lives. Unsurprisingly. “We expect to have it fully renovated by next fall for day programming, and have a school fully operational by the September after next.” She took a large bite of fruit salad. “Isn’t that exciting?” 

“That’s great, Daff,” Ben said from across the table, with a yawn — he’d just flown in from somewhere late the night before. At the foot of the table, Lady Vi frowned as she ran her fork across her plate: She was nettled because Col was leaving for several months to build the content-hotel-thingy he’d pitched so passionately to Ant. A sullen, hungover Eloise sat next to Ben, followed by Col and Hy,  and, most improbably, a chipper Ant, relaxed and smiling in a Commes des Garcon button down, sat at the head of the table. 

“And,” she continued, voice still bright, “Simon signed his first clients as an agent!” 

“Oh really?” Ant asked. “Who?” 

Next to her Si quickly swallowed frittata, washed it down with champagne. “Couple of my old mates, plus Lessano, Keane, and Clarke from Richmond. Oh, and Lady Danbury’s grandson.” 

“Gareth St. Clair?” Hy chimed in, eager and interested. “He’s on the national U21 team isn’t he? And signed to Tottenham’s practice squad.” 

Greg snickered. “Also known as the guy you thought was cute at Daff’s wedding.” Hy turned scarlet, and very clearly kicked Greg under the table. The focus off Daff, the other siblings started to have their own side conversations. “I saw you following him around all night like a pup — ow , you raggedy —” 

“—Excuse me?” Ant interjected, quickly honing in on their youngest siblings through the chatter. “He’s at least four years older than you, Hyacinth. And, you know — out there in the world. As an athlete .” 

“I didn’t say anything except what football team he’s on,” Hy protested, but she continued to redden. Daff snickered; Hy was their little tomboy, always in sneakers and watching sports with her older brothers. It was cute to see her so clearly smitten. 

Ant, though, grew white, and muttered something under his breath about having just gotten Daff settled. Then — “No dating until you’re eighteen, OK? Trust me — boys are just stupid, alright?” 

“Oh, dear god,” Ben said, dropping something into his glass of water. It fizzed spectacularly before he took a drink. “You’re one to talk.” 

“You know, my new friend Piper studied biological neuroscience before she started this PhD in bioengineering, and she would actually agree with Ant,” El chimed in, coming alive a bit as she yanked pieces of croissant into her mouth. She’d been surlier than usual — even for her — and pretty sarcastic lately. “She knows loads of biological reasons why men suck, Hy. If you want.” 

“I would love to hear them, actually, send them to both of us,” Ant said. 

Daff nudged Hy. “This is perfectly normal in this family; you don’t have to listen to him,” she whispered. 

“You’ve brought Piper up so much these past weeks,” Lady Vi probed carefully. “Is she single? What is her family like? She sounds lovely.” 

A cloud settled back on Eloise’s face, and Daff caught Fran rolling her eyes, just a little bit. “If you must know, Piper’s family lives in Hong Kong. And she recently got out of a really terrible relationship. Her live-in girlfriend had just an awful struggle with some mental-health issues; Piper tried to help but she finally moved back in with her parents. So she’s not dating right now.” 

“So you’re —”

“Friends. She lives in Oxford so we just text a lot.” 

“Hey, is Pen coming to your goodbye dinner on Tuesday, or not?” Fran asked Col. “I think she’s back living with her mum for some reason but I’d like to know when she’s coming back.” El snorted. Interesting , Daff though, exchanging a raised eyebrow with Simon. 

“I, uh, no idea, I wouldn’t know, why would I know,” Col said, voice stammering.  

Fran raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed. Daff felt that. “Because you were sleeping with her, it ended badly, now it’s in Whistledown and she’s basically fled because of embarrassment, caused by you?” 

“Whistledown has gone Whistle dark lately, I wouldn’t blame it all on Col,” Ben interjected. “She did a Top 10 of Failed Rehab Stints yesterday. It’s nasty stuff now.” 

“Oh I think we can blame Col for plenty,” El muttered. 

Daff raised an eyebrow at Ant, who was simply leaning back and observing everything, a hand on his chin. “You OK, brother?” she asked. He truly seemed more content than she’d seen him in months. Maybe years.

“Oh? Hmmm yes, though now I’m just thinking about how a girls’ school in the country might be nice for Hy.” He laughed, just a bit, as Hy shot him a cross look.

“Now that you and Siena are over … are you going to call Kate up?” she asked, trying for gentle. Non-meddling, if you will.

“Oh, no,” he said. “No, she’s quite set on her New York plan, I think, and I feel like I’ve fucked up her life quite enough in the last six months.” He picked at his plate. “No, I think I may take a break from dating. God knows running the company is going to take plenty of time this year.” He wrinkled his nose. “I might get a dog. What do you think?” 

Daff could simply purse her lips and stare — there was simply no way Ant had time for a puppy. Next to her, Greg snorted. “Just don’t propose to her, again, mate. That’d be … four in six months?” Ant simply glared.  

Simon, in the midst of talking soccer with Hy, looked up. “Who’s at the door?” 

“I … don’t know,” Daff said, because she heard the commotion too. Lady Vi started to count siblings to ensure they were all there, and they hadn’t accidentally started without someone. It had happened before. The voices got noisier though, and the footfalls closer, and then suddenly — “Edwina Sharma?” Daff asked, astonished. 

“Oy. Whoa. There’s quite a lot of you when you’re all in the same room,” the slender tennis star said as she stumbled into the room, a confused Phoebe behind her.  

“I am a huge fan,” Hy burst out, gesturing wildly to demonstrate just how huge. “I’ve seen all your matches this year. My favorite is Cincinnati third round, so far, with that long rally!” 

“You’re embarrassing us, Hy,” Greg groaned. “But also, who’s the most famous celebrity you’ve met?” 

“Good to see you again,” Simon said, saluting with a knife — he was always gentle with Bridgerton interlopers. “Do you need food?” 

“Oh, ah, I don’t think so.” She looked a bit flustered. “I, uh, wanted to talk to Anthony. Do I … need to ask you all for permission?” 

“How did you find us?” Lady Violet asked, in a deceptively polite tone.  

“Um, Freddie. Said that if it was Sunday this was my best bet,” she said with a smile. “Do you all … do this breakfast every week?” Edwina looked distinctly unimpressed — Daff though, she didn’t know her well — by their big-family antics. “Is that — frittata though?” 

“It is and it’s delicious,” Col confirmed. 

“We’ll get you a plate,” Fran offered, signaling for Phoebe. “Try the potatoes as well, they’re delicious.” 

“Oooh and the croissants,” El suggested, stuffing some into her mouth as well. 

“Edwina. Is everything OK with Kate? And your father?” Ant asked, with an edge to his voice. Daff realized that he’d been completely still since Edwina walked in. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering her purpose. “Put simply: No. No it is not. ”

“What?” Everyone had more or less the same reaction, though Ant’s was decidedly the loudest. 

“Oh! I mean, she’s physically OK — thank you.” Edwina took her plate, and Col gallantly stood to offer her his seat, which she took. Daff looked at Edwina critically; she definitely intended to generate that reaction.

Ant, though, was absolutely not relaxed and stood as well. “Edwina, please enjoy your food but what is the matter with Kate?” He was more agitated than Daff had seen him in days. Across the table, Si gave her a look that signaled well isn’t this interesting . She grinned in response and gave a little shimmy. This could be fun. 

“She’s trying to move to New York, you arse! Are you engaged?” 

“What? No. Siena and I broke up.” 

A look of triumph passed Edwina’s face; Daff assumed the two sisters had quarreled about this. “I knew it. And why didn’t you run through the streets of London to Kate immediately after?” She turned back to Col. “This is a great frittata by the way, thank you.” 

“I — listen, Edwina —”

“No, you listen!” She swung a fork at him. “She is going to be on a plane to New York this afternoon because she doesn’t want to fuck up your life anymore.” 

“Oh Christ,” Daff said, looking at Ant. “You two are really two peas in a pod.” He sighed, heavily; she knew this type of group showdown was probably his worst nightmare. 

“Do you think she loves him?” Fran asked, leaning forward toward Edwina. “He’s been so into her for months and I think she’s been scared.” 

“He’s been an absolute arse. Also, we love your sister,” El added. 

Edwina nodded vigorously. “No, she absolutely loves him. She’ll literally leave the country for some weird self-sacrificial thing — I don’t know if you know, but my dad is sick, and she’d never leave him without a good reason. But she thinks she’s holding Ant back from his life, or whatever. That’s how much she cares.” 

“Your sister — it’s a very prestigious job, Edwina; she’s worked hard for the recognition.” It was cute, Daff decided, how Ant would still defend her. “Your sister’s brilliant and the New York job is a huge opportunity.” 

Edwina rolled her eyes. “And, she’s like, used to defaulting to career and putting herself last and denying her feelings and that’s what she’s doing.” Her tone was impressively exasperated. “So can you … just go talk to her? Nobody’s asking you to propose or anything.” 

“Please, no,” Violet groaned. 

“We’ve done enough of that this year,” Ben said. 

“Do you love Kate, Ant?” Hy asked, voice bright and excited at the prospect of Kate being around more. “You want a whole family, why not with Kate? She’s super fun.” 

“She loves you,” Edwina added, a protective threat under her voice. “Even if she didn’t say it back, after you did.” 

“You told her you love her? When?” Daff demanded. 

“She heard that?” Ant cut in urgently. “She told you?” To Hy and Daff he said, somewhat impatiently, “Yes, of course I love Kate. That’s been half the damn problem, I’d reckon, figuring all that out.” 

“You love her!” The chorus included at least all the Bridgerton women, and potentially Col as well. Si sat back, amused, and sipped his drink. Ben took another long drink of water. 

Edwina looked, if possible, even prouder of herself. “He does; he told her. My dad told me. Kate heard you, but so did Appa.” She took a tiny bite of fruit. “He’s a big fan, by the way.” 

“No, back to Daff’s question.” Fran pulled them back. “When?” 

Ant sighed. “The night I went to go help out with her father.” 

“According to Appa they fell asleep together, and also spent a ton of time making out,” Edwina informed the group. “Like, ten feet from my sleeping, infirm dad. Could not stop themselves, apparently.” She was enjoying being the center of attention, had her big Centre Court smile on her face. 

Violet put her hands on her eyes. “Could have done without that detail, Edwina.” 

“If my mum and dad get it, you do too,” she said with a shrug. 

“Ant, you should go ask her to be your girlfriend,” Hy suggested authoritatively. 

“Or at least to not get on this plane,” El added. “Letting her go without talking is incredibly stupid, even for you.” 

“El, do be encouraging,” Daff said. “But yes, Ant, what’s the harm in talking?” 

“She wants to, she’s just scared to,” Edwina said. “Trust me, I don’t think there’s anything you two couldn’t work out if you talked .” 

“I think you can do this, Ant,” Fran said, and the two most reserved Bridgertons shared a look. “You’re brave enough, I know you are.”  She spoke only to him; she was the only voice Ant seemed to process, before he finally nodded, gathering himself.

“It may not look like you expect it to, but I do think this is love, brother,” Daff added. “Just — don’t go at it the way you did in Paris.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Ant insisted, quiet but sure. He looked more settled, and more adult, than Daff had probably ever seen him. “I absolutely would not.” He turned back to Edwina. “Are you sure she’d be open to this? The last thing I want…” 

“Yes, absolutely,” Edwina replied. “I know I haven’t been around a lot, I know she’s reserved … but I know my sister. And I think you do too.” She took a bite again. “Honestly, I would expect she figured this out way earlier than you and freaked out. Did you … tell her that you like, didn’t want to marry for love and didn’t want to marry her?” 

“Let’s not even get into that,” El groaned. “It was stupid and I apologize on behalf of all the women in this room.” 

“Our father died when Ant was young and it’s been a challenge for the boys especially,” Fran explained. 

“Hey!” Col said. 

Fran stared back, unimpressed. “Where’s my roommate, Col?” 

“Kate’s amma died when she was four; I get it,” Edwina replied. 

“Hey. All of you. Edwina. When does she leave?” 

“She needs to leave for Heathrow within the hour,” Edwina replied. “I’ve been waiting for an entire day for her to come to you and she didn’t, so.” She flicked her ponytail behind her. “I had to come fix things.” Fran and El gave her a sympathetic young-sibling nod. 

“Is she at your house?” Ant started to move toward the door. Depending on traffic it was at least twenty minutes.

“Yup!” Edwina called. “I’ll just hang out with you all?” 

“We like you,” Fran said. 

“We don’t say that about most people,” El added. 

“Can you give me backhand tips?” Hy asked. 

Daff rose. “I’ll walk you out.” Ant nodded, gratefully. 

“Wait!” Violet called, and, to the surprise of everyone except Edwina, gave Ant a massive hug, which he returned. Daff heard her whisper I’m proud of you. And so is your father. As he and Daff ducked out, literally the entire room erupted into applause. 

The walk to the door started quietly — Ant was tense, but from nerves and excitement, not fear. She could practically see him practicing his words. 

He looked … ready.

She smiled. She was so proud of him. “You know — I think the last time I walked you out, I told you to be a little open-minded about love and what it looks like. And you met Kate what, three days later?” 

He smiled, remembering. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” 

“Are you feeling … good?” she checked. They couldn’t afford another fuckup. 

“I … think so, yeah,” he said. 

“No advice,” Daff started, “but … do speak from the heart, ok? Sometimes I worry your heart gets so big it stops up your throat.” 

“I … yeah.” He stopped. “You know, I asked Si how he knew , right before the wedding. And he said … with you, deciding you were the first priority, and everything else could follow … when he ordered things in that way, everything felt easy. Obvious.” He nodded. “That’s … how this feels.” 

She beamed, opening the large front door. “Good. Now, go get your girl.” 

Ant practically sprinted to his Jag. 

With a huff, Kate dumped all her toiletries onto her dresser, and started to repack them. She was due to leave in a little under an hour, and she didn’t feel particularly ready. Edwina had slunk off right after coffee, and while Kate knew that this wasn’t goodbye to London — this was a final interview; she’d be back Tuesday morning — she had quite wished that Edwina would be there to say goodbye to her. 

Though more accurately, she wished that she could say goodbye to someone else. 

Her mind had not stopped, frankly, since her conversation with her family yesterday. She knew she’d froze, but she simply needed to process . She always had; she had probably made her first pro-and-con list in kindergarten. She knew that was disappointing to Edwina, maybe Mum and Appa as well — the fact that she simply wasn’t built for sprints through London traffic, set to a soundtrack of 90s music. She wanted to be as brave as Edwina thought she was, she thought she could be, but the taunts of doubt — the whispers of all good things will end , that had followed her since she was four — still held her back. 

But. 

But she did want to trust in a happy ending, even as every instinct whispered it didn’t exist. She wanted to trust that Ant meant it when he said he loved her, even though she wasn’t sure if either of them knew what that meant. She wanted to trust a leap into a life with him, even though she’d never considered such a thing. All her instincts and reasons no longer held up, no longer made sense against that simple fact: This, with him, was what she wanted. More than any other choice. 

What are my o ptions , she asked herself. It was a mantra, at this point, grounding her to the facts: She loved Ant, he said he loved her, their families were here, this job was interesting and important. 

The options were simple: talk to Ant; don’t talk to Ant. Fly to New York; stay in London. 

But it was more than that. Choose happiness, choose fear. Happiness was terrifying, and fear comforting. 

And there was only one real option. 

Because, she realized, with a crystal-clear sense of assurance running through her: She wanted. Wanting this made all the difference, tamped down the noises and the people-pleasing and the analysis paralysis. She wanted him, she wanted a real chance, she wanted a future. For the first time in a very long time, she wanted something more than she doubted and feared something.  She held back a laugh; wanting already felt so much easier, so much less stress, than trying to not-want so that everything else could work. So much easier than fighting this — her feelings, him, her instincts. 

But more than anything, she wanted to try. 

He might say no (he wouldn’t say no). She had a dire, slightly dramatic certainty that she would not be able to live the rest of her life without talking to him. Right now. She’d never be able to convince herself she was happy — could be happy — without talking to him, right now. 

She shrugged her brand new vintage orange Chanel blazer — a go-get-em present Sophie had couriered over — over her silk tank and dark jeans, ran downstairs. Flung open the front door. 

And there he was.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough and hoarse. He looked slightly out of breath — cheeks pinked, hair mussed, sweat at his collar. Hands settled into pockets. His eyes were a bit guarded, all expectation under uncertainty. Hopes up even though neither of them were very good with hope. 

Both tears and a smile sprang inadvertently to her face, so quickly that she clasped a hand over her mouth automatically. “Hi,” she said, taking a big, silly exhale, practically laughing with joy as she did so.

And then she leaned forward, and kissed him. 

He responded immediately and ferociously, arms slipping under her jacket to clutch her closer to him, aligning her body to the length of his. She tugged a hand into his hair, pushing him to open his mouth, slipping her tongue — finally — back into his mouth. She kissed him soundly, filthily, pouring herself into him, into the kiss. It was fireworks, it was happiness, it was coming home, it was the universe sliding back into place. It was now, it was tomorrow, it was forever and ever. 

She couldn’t remember why she’d ever been scared of this. 

He crashed her into the tiny entryway table, and she pushed herself up to sit. His hands — large, solid, perfect — pulled her thighs back, giving him room to step even closer, let him grind mindlessly into her. He pulled back, nipped her bottom lip with his teeth, brushed his nose against hers. They paused, drinking in each other, her tears — and his, she realized — on both their cheeks. “I love you,” he sighed, kissed her again. Pulled away again, to really underline his point. “Fucking Christ, Kate. I love you so much. Since the moment I first spotted you on the Thames, really. Every stupid night we pretended we weren’t dating, every party we flirted across the room, every dinner on the couch doing work. Every argument about football, or Pall Mall, or the best way to load a dishwasher. It’s always been you.” He kissed her nose, and she closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. “Just you.” He kissed her right eyelid. “ Only you.” Her left eyelid. “Always you.” He pulled back, hands on her cheekbones, thumbs stroking gently, wonder in his eyes. “And you don’t — you don’t need to say anything, you can argue with me, you can fly off to New York and never see me again.” He swallowed. “But you need to know.” 

“I love you too,” she swore, trailing her fingers around and onto his jaw. He grasped one, kissed her pulsepoint, and started to kiss up her arm. It was delicate, reverent, potentially the most loving thing anyone had ever done to her. Her stomach positively swooped at the sensation. “I’ve — ah — I don’t know, since that cheap Indian food the first night we met, Ant. Every laugh, every argument, I’ve loved you. So much, too much, never enough.” She took her arm back, wrapped both back around him, kissed him again. 

“Thank fuck,” he murmured, pulling them apart with a bit of a wild, relieved laugh. She’d never seen him happier. But when she leaned in to kiss him again — he loved her, she loved him, she was losing her mind, just a little bit — he pulled back. “I — Kate, we should talk. I have … things to say. Apologies to make, really.” 

He stepped back, and the delirious moment settled. She realized — she would certainly miss her plane, but they had a lifetime ahead of them to make out. “I — the same,” she agreed. “Do you … do you want any chai?”

“Would love some,” he agreed. She started to move into the kitchen, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her neck as they walked. She reached behind him to scratch his hair again — she knew he liked that — and tilted her neck to give him better access, but otherwise she simply gave a mindless, pleased grunt, and let him do as he liked.

They were still in that position when she reached for the saucepan, but then he suddenly moved. “Let me,” he offered.

Surprised, she stepped aside, leaned against the barstool, tried to smooth her clothes and hair now that they had a break and some space. But she was entranced as he moved confidently through her kitchen, filling the pan with the appropriate amount of water and putting it to a simmer, expertly adding  the right amount of loose tea leaves, grinding an extra pod of cardamom and the correct amount of ginger and fennel seed and adding it as well. He added milk to the bottom of two mugs, poured the tea over, stirred. Slid a cup to her and took a seat in the extra barstool.

“I didn’t know you paid that close attention when I made tea,” she said softly. A warmth fluttered through her as she rested her feet on the legs of his barstool. She’d never been cared for the way he did, even mindlessly; it shifted one’s perspective a bit, to matter that much. 

“I always pay close attention to you,” he said, a little gruff as he spun the spoon around a bit in his cup. She thought of his scribbled list of Appa’s prescriptions; Edwina’s teed-up matches; his encyclopedic knowledge of her cases, her coworkers, her preferred orders, her glares, her hairstyles. They were side-by-side and so awkwardly positioned, she leaned over to put a hand on his hip, just above his arse, gave it a grateful pat as she smiled at him. 

“We, uh, have the place to ourselves, right now,” she started. “But Edwina may come home soon, I’m supposed to — what?” 

“Your sister, I hate to inform you, is happily hanging out with all my sisters, mercilessly gossiping about us.” The corner of his lips quirked up. “She crashed brunch to yell at me. She’s, um, decisive. And insightful.” 

“Oh my God,” Kate laughed, trying to imagine poor Violet’s face at the scene. She took a large sip of tea. “So we’re quite alone then.” She slid a foot up his calf, and he smirked. 

“I do — well, I’d like to fucking ravish you for at least two hours, but, first. This ah, may come out badly, but I’d like to … try to apologize. And be honest.”

“Same,” she reassured him. “I’m definitely going to be terrible at it.” It felt so good, so right, so easy being back with him — honesty felt like it might be easy now, as well.

He took a deep breath. “So. I’ve been an absolute arse the last, I don’t know, six months? I didn’t know what I wanted or what I was looking for, and I was too dumb to recognize this for what it so obviously is. And has been for a long time. I’m just … I grew a bit accustomed to everyone needing things, and for too long, and I … resented that. But I also — I used it all as a crutch Kate, just like you accused me of doing.” He delivered the words a bit sheepishly for affect, but she couldn’t quite laugh at their collective stupidity yet. “And I was just on a tear, tunnel-visioned, mad at everything and everybody.” He looked over. “And we became collateral damage. You were collateral damage. Before anything else happens — if nothing else ever happens — I just. I need you to know. How absolutely sorry I am.” 

“I know. And I’m sorry too,” she said with a sigh, grasping his hand with hers. Running her index finger around until she could find his pulse point — steady and strong and there. “I … I am used to doing things a certain way. Preferring to them a certain way. And certainly not getting any help, or input, from anyone else. Because … well, you get disappointed, or people leave you. And I’d rather ... avoid those things. Those feelings.” She looked at him. “Which you called me on. And know.” She held things too tightly, knowing that they would inevitably break, preferring that she at least be the one to do so. Fixed the broken pieces of others because it was easier than fixing her own broken pieces. 

“I do,” he nodded. 

“Right,” she sighed. “And then — I realized I loved you in Paris, when you started in on renegotiating a contract. Not just that I loved you a little , but that it was big, and, vast, and deep. Far too much to be —”

“Under control?” he smiled. 

She gave him a look. She really should trademark the phrase, the way her family flung it back on her all the time. “Yes. Exactly.”

“And I … I came to Paris, to try and … convince you in a whole backwards way, I suppose, to do this. I just — I didn’t have the words. But Kate — when I found out about the gene, I wasn’t — it wasn’t that I worried about you getting sick. Or about … my bloodline, or whatever. Kate —” he stared straight at her, earnest and ardent and just a tad insane-looking  — “I thought about, for the first time, what it was like, if I lost you. And it was just fucking terrifying .” He swallowed. “And again — I’m here, for you. If you don’t want kids, if you want to move to New York, we’ll … we’ll figure all of it out. My choice is us, I want us. A life that works for us. A life that suits us both. Every moment of every day. Us first, us only, us always.”  

She leaned forward to kiss him once, a gentle affirmation, a thank-you for verbalizing the feelings that she’d held for so long and had been too scared to wrestle into coherency. Then she pulled back. “It’s not — well, not anymore — that I don’t want kids. I don’t know if I do, and I didn’t want to just … change my mind, because it was something you wanted. That’s … not me.”

“I would never doubt that,” he said. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.” He kissed her fingers, wrapped her hand in his. 

One to talk, but — “I don’t know, is my point. I honestly don’t know a lot of things.” She took a sip and looked down, then up at him, and took a deep breath. Tried to just say everything she wanted to say in the clearest, cleanest way possible. “But I’d like to figure it out with you. All of it. I thought a relationship, a family, could only be a burden. Another thing to take care of. But with you …” she searched his face, “I don’t think of it as a burden, an obligation. It’s an adventure, almost. With you, I … I want . I want to figure it out together. I want to laugh, argue, fuck. I want you on my side. I don’t want a marriage, kids, all of that yet, all of that without you, but … I want the good things, the bad things, whatever they look like, with you.” She took a sip of chai before confessing: “They feel … easier with you.” 

“On the kids — are you sure you want to consider it?” he asked, concerned. “Whatever you want, I want, and I do get the genetic risks, Kate, I would never —”

“—  I took the test,” she exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut with the confession. She opened them again. “I … It was an … excuse, not knowing. It made it easier to keep my life — well, under control, give myself over to responsibilities. Hide, really. And that worked until I started to want things like this, like you, more than I wanted to keep things under control.  Anyways. So. I took the test. After I came back from St. Tropez. I got the results back … honestly, right as I flew back to Appa. So a few weeks.” 

“And?” His tone was inscrutable. 

“Negative.” She closed her eyes, and let a few tears of relief fall. “I’m negative for the gene. That doesn’t mean — I mean, of course, we both know, terrible things are going to happen, there’s still plenty of hard things, but —” He promptly covered her mouth with his, kissed her. They’d been so good at focusing on the talking thing, but it quickly heated up. His hand finally slipped under her shirt, trailed upward until he cupped a breast, slipped his thumb under the cup to ghost across a nipple.

She laughed, ducked to suck along his neck before he righted them both. Looked at her with the widest grin imaginable, so bright that she wanted to put on sunglasses. “Kathani Sharma, we are going to have a lot of fucking amazing things in between all the hard things. Even if we both have to remind each other of that constantly.” 

“I know,” she said, laughing a little as she leaned her forehead against his. “I do know.” 

He kissed her again — a long kiss, a slow one that she felt all the way done in her toes. A bone-deep calm settled over her, passion and joy and relief turning into certainty, into rightness. He pulled back, just a bit. Looked deep at her. “Will you just … talk to me? Moving forward. About anything. About everything.” 

She arched an eyebrow. There were two of them in this relationship, with their complete sets of personal foibles and challenges. “Will you listen ?” 

He raised her hand to his lips. Kissed her pinky. “About anything. About everything,” he promised. Serious as a vow.

“I will,” she whispered. 

There weren’t really any other words to say, and when he kissed her again, it felt quieter, but so much more urgent, and intentional. “Come upstairs?” he asked, even though it was her house. 

They moved slowly up the stairs, peeling each others’ clothes off as they wandered. She was reminded of their first hookup, in his dark apartment, when she quite obviously put her shoes, coat, and purse next to each other for an easy flee. Now his shoes were toed off at the bottom of her stairs, his belt somewhere on the third step, the Chanel jacket probably on the fourth. His sweater, discarded at the top of the stairs. His hand snaked under her shirt to unclasp her bra, even before he removed her shirt, and a delighted, surprised groan emerged from her throat. He chuckled lowly, returning his hands to her chest. In revenge, she palmed at his jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding down the zipper to reach his cock, fingers stretching toward his balls. He gasped, spun her against her door frame. “God, Kate.” He sighed. “I love you completely, you know.” 

It was a ridiculous visual — their hair messed up; her hands were in his pants; his firmly and slowly massaging her breasts — and at once the most romantic thing she could possibly think of. 

She looked at him from under her lashes, quiet and sure. He was the most perfect sight she’d ever seen — bright, eager, heart-bursting, real, solid. “And I’m madly in love with you.” She reached up and kissed him, using the distraction to push his boxer-briefs and jeans down. “Now would you please get on with it?” 

With a laugh, he yanked her jeans down before picking her up, her hands going automatically to his shoulders with a laugh. He somehow sat down on the bed without dropping her — he always had so much more graceful strength than she expected. Now in his lap, he carefully lifted her shirt up. Leaned forward and flicked a nipple gently with his tongue, tracing patterns over the other one before beginning to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Oh god,” she groaned, arching backward and bringing one hand to his hair, scratching at the spot at the back of his neck that made him groan, another to the planes of his chest, scrabbling for purchase. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured, biting at her lightly. His fingers wandered lower, teased at her clit, dragged through the very slippery seam of her. “Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you?”

“What?” she challenged breathily. Somewhere in London, her plane was probably boarding, their siblings were probably gossiping, and she cared about nothing.

“First, I’m going to eat you out. You’ll come on my fingers, my mouth. You’ll drip.” He started to kiss all over, fervid, mindless. “So much that tomorrow I’ll still be able to smell you. I’m going to kiss every part of you that I’ve thought about these last three months.” 

“In what order?” she taunted, with a wink. She slid her hand down between them, to his cock, already completely hard and even beginning to leak. Tracing a finger up and down him, she asked, “Top to bottom? Left to right?” She swiped her thumb across his head. 

He flopped himself backwards, slid her body up to his chest before she could even blink. He looked up at her with dark, hungry eyes. “Nope. What I missed the most first.” With that, he hoisted her above his mouth. 

She collapsed forward against the headboard with a shout, as he began to eat her out. His hands firm and warm on her hips, she ground on his face. He teased her though, nipping first at her inner thighs, reminding her how much he liked them. She tried to shift, direct him toward where she wanted, until he paused, lifted her up just a bit so she was looking at her again. “I’ve missed you, OK?” he said firmly. “Let me be a fucking gentleman and take my time.” 

“Just this once,” she countered, but he bit her, again, then chuckled, and she gasped and acquiesced, melting onto him and losing herself in the sensations. He’d always been so phenomenal at this, attacking so many parts of her, kept her constantly climbing to the edge. He worked slowly closer to the center of her, rubbing circles in her thighs with his thumbs as his tongue and then nose began to work. He flicked his tongue over her clit, and then, finally, moved his tongue and fingers right to where she wanted them, working one finger and then two — or three? — into her spreading and kneading and sparking at her. “Fuck,” she groaned loudly, putting her head on her forearms as she leaned forward, gasped. It felt somehow better than before, her breasts and neck somehow so on fire they nearly hurt. “Christ — right — fuck.” She sighed. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I love you,” he said, right into her, his voice muffled as he got back to work. His fingers scissored and crooked sharply in her, and she shouted as she sank further onto her face. “Good girl,” he all but growled. 

He worked her, closer and maniacally closer, to a peak; all her nerves on fire and all thoughts out of her head. She lost whatever control remained. The world began and ended in her room, religion and science with his body. The closer she got, though, the more she knew — “Wait. Stop. Ant.” She patted stupidly around his hands.

“Yeah?” he groaned. 

“I want — I want you. I want to come with you.” It was the first time she’d ever made that request, and she supposed she should feel bashful, perhaps a little stupid.  

He grinned, letting her slide back, and she practically collapsed at his side. Nipped at his shoulder and ear, stroked his throbbing cock. “How do you want it?” he asked. 

“As close to you as possible.” 

And so — she pushed him upright against the headboard, looped a thigh over his hips, waited for him to slide his knees up to cradle her. He was sweaty, musky, overexerted, beautiful — his lips and face mussed, his eyes already dazed though still cocky. Bitemarks dotting his neck, his shoulders, a few scratchmarks settling across his chest. She knew she looked at least as undone as him. 

She’d never felt so full of love.

She slid onto him, groaning as she let him fill her again. Fucking finally. It was a cliche, but she felt at home, after so long. Once adjusted to his girth, she slowly rode him, kissed him as deeply as she could as he bucked gently up against her. Eventually his fingers would back down to her clit, his lips to her breasts and then up to her neck, her hands everywhere she could touch. They started to pick up speed, intensity, when he groaned, “I’m so fucking close, Kate.” 

“I — am — too,” she encouraged him. “And I love you, so fucking much.” Once she said it, it was like she couldn’t stop saying it. She loved the sounds so much; loved the way his eyes crinkled, as if saying really ; love the way it emboldened him; loved the way her heart seemed to grow like a Chia pet with every reminder.

She picked up her pace again, joy sparking, tears falling, even a few inopportune breaths of laughter escaping her whenever she encountered something unexpected — his rougher-than-she-remembered facial hair, the callous-pads of his fingers bruising more deeply into her hips, a bump in their rhythm as he stuttered. 

And with a shout and a cry, they came, first her cascading over the edge and then him. She tumbled to his side, hair flying over both of them, some landing in his mouth, still open with his final groan. With a laugh, he blew it out of his mouth, then reached for her hip.

She turned, curling her entire body into his side, sliding a hand along his cheekbones, pressing his nose against her. Turned and stared into the eyes she knew she’d be looking at for the next fifty years.

Nothing would be certain, she knew — except him. Except them.

“That was —” she started.

He kissed her, so gentle and so full of promise. “Amazing.” 

“You know, I am supposed to be on a flight to New York right now,” she said nervously. He had earlier indicated that he’d follow her there — was that true?

“Well —” he ran his hands up her side. “What if —” He kissed her lightly — “I call up our plane —” He kissed her more deeply — “and get us a ride for later in the afternoon —” This time, he licked into her mouth, and she felt herself becoming less tired — “and then we stay her for the next two hours?” 

She rolled him right on top of her, feeling whole and wholly herself, for the first time in a long time. “That sounds perfect.” 

Chapter Text

When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start right now. — When Harry Met Sally 

“Favorite color,” Ant asked mindlessly, winding one of her curls around his right index finger. His left hand trailed down Kate’s spine. 

She shifted on his chest, adjusting to be minutely closer, her finger tracing his hip bone. “Orange. No, purple. Hmm. Maybe green.” She leaned up to kiss his jaw. “Definitely orange is first, but why do I have to choose just one?” 

He laughed at how put-upon she sounded. “You absolutely do not. You can have ten if you want ten.” He kissed her forehead, nose, mouth. 

“What’s yours?” she asked. 

“I don’t know … black?” Not blue, certainly. 

She laughed. “Of course it is. Why did I ask?” She placed a kiss on his sternum. 

“Do you miss your nose ring?” he asked next, tugging gently on her navel piercing. 

She was surprised by the question, but nodded. “It was both cultural and a rebellious thing.” She looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought about it in a while.”

He definitely thought of it often. “How many languages d’you speak?” 

“Speak, or fluent? Fluent, four. Hindi, which is what Appa and his family speak. Tamil was my first language, it’s what Amma spoke. I can get by in Urdu, Punjab — many similarities there — a bit of Azerbaijani from Mum, French from school. I went to, like, South Asian school on Sunday growing up, even after I started to board, I learned Marathi there, too.” She kept shifting her hands around distractingly. “And I studied Sanskrit a bit too, but I can’t speak it.” 

“So … nine,” he summarized. She put his German and Mandarin to shame. 

“What can I say? I have a talented tongue.” She grinned, moving up to kiss him thoroughly with said instrument.  

She pulled back relatively quickly, though. “My turn for questions.” She shifted so she was lying entirely on top of him, one long leg slotted between his and palms flat on his chest and fingers just lightly stroking his nipples. He wasn’t sure they’d fully stopped touching each other since yesterday, and there was a supple, languorous warmth to how she draped herself over him — familiarly, like nothing about his dimensions surprised her, like she did this every day. 

He intended to make that a reality.

It was just before six AM New York time and, between the time difference and the sheer sex-fueled adrenaline of the last eighteen hours, they were both wildly awake. Yesterday, after a solid two hours reacquainting themselves, he’d thrown her suitcase in his boot and drove them to his place to pack — he wasn’t quite ready to let her out of his sight — before heading to the Heathrow private terminal, where the BG jet was waiting. They managed to remember to text their families that they were heading to New York just before turning off their cell phones. 

He didn’t charter the plane for personal use often but it had been perfect: just them, two pilots, and a flight attendant who knew how to make herself scarce. Kate had lightly mocked, but also commented on the ease and the quiet and the convenience of a private flight. They’d watched TV and then crashed — and fucked, quietly, after determining neither was a member of the mile-high club — in the tiny bedroom. They’d landed at nine local time, the dead of night back home. 

After the concierge customs officer processed their passports, they took a towncar to the Plaza. It was the only piece of real estate BG currently owned in the States — in the late 1800s, a railroad heiress had married in, saving the family by exchanging her fortune for their titles. Her husband died young; when her son, Ant’s great-great-grandfather was grown, he’d purchased her the hotel so she always had a place to stay in her home city. 

And now, one hundred years later, he and Kate were lying in a cloud of a bed, cocooned in a suite overlooking Central Park, asking each other every stockpiled question from the last six months. Fate had a funny way of putting you exactly where you needed to be. 

“Maddest you’ve been at a sibling,” she asked to start her round. 

He sighed. “When Col was eighteen he drove drunk and high and crashed a car. Totally unscathed but when I went to go pick him up from the hospital — Mother was too upset — we started arguing, he pulled the you’re-not-my-father shit, and then I had to walk him back down to Emergency to patch up his broken nose.” Her fingers drew soothing circles against his skin, and he blinked. 

She put her chin on his chest. “That sounds awful, baby. I’m so sorry.” 

“Thanks. Col and El were absolute hellions.” Hy probably would be too. He tugged a curl. “Do a fun one next.”

“Hidden artistic talent?” 

“Fran’s always said I’m a good singer.” She licked a stripe on his chest, and he groaned. “You?”

“Ben complimented my watercolors once.” She circled a nipple. “Age you lost your virginity.” She sucked at the juncture of his collarbone and neck, and he relaxed further into her touch. 

“Fifteen.” It felt young, now that he’d dealt with Greg. “One of Nick’s continental cousins. A party for the Ruby Jubilee.” He slid his hands down her backside. “You?” 

“Eighteen. Last party of the summer, a bloke on the rowing team. I didn’t want to go to uni with it.” She giggled as he massaged her arse. “The things that felt deeply important then.” 

He kissed her, because she felt deeply important now. 

Ant simply could not ever remember feeling this state of tranquil bliss. Somewhere, there were emails to answer and a whole new company to run; his family — or perhaps hers — would eventually need care and feeding; they needed a New York apartment. But while this still felt so new that if he sneezed, she’d disappear, it also felt solid . Fears that he had never even fully registered suddenly felt like they’d evaporated. 

Because Kate Sharma loved him.

Eventually, they got up, went on a run through Central Park and then down to the East River to check out the boathouse, detouring on the way back for Ess-A Bagel at Kate’s insistence. Kate kept pointing out personal landmarks — there was the club where she’d broken a heel at 24; here was the restaurant she and her law-school classmates were ejected from. “What time’s your interview?” He asked as they wandered back up Third Avenue, chewing the (delicious) egg bagel. Kate had yelled at him when he tried to order it toasted. 

“Ten.” She cleared her throat, after a bite of her lox-everything. “Afterwards I’m getting lunch with my old mentor from my New York firm. I’d like you to come.” She held out her arm to stop him from stepping into traffic. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. I’d like your opinion.” She shrugged, a bit sheepish. “Your take on the offer, if you think it’d be a good step for my career.” He hadn’t thought there were things to consider — but before he could say anything, she asked, “What will you do while I’m at the interview?”

“Ah.” He perked up. He’d had Cathy cancel all his meetings today. “I think I’ll look at skyscrapers and see which one I might want to buy for Bridgerton Americas. Or, Brooklyn — I’ve heard marvelous things. Have you been?” Maybe he could find one of those damned New York hot dogs Ben hated. 

She laughed, charmed. “Wait, you’ve never been to Brooklyn? Seriously? I figured you traveled to New York all the time.” 

“Not particularly.” He shrugged. He had been to plenty of places but he wouldn’t consider it traveling, not in the way Kate did. She was always going to the newest exhibit or show with Sophie or Ben; always on the hunt for the very best restaurant regardless of price point; always happy to chat movies and art and music with Daff or Fran, even his mother. She loved experiences and his spine prickled, just a touch self-consciously, at his own limited curiosity. “I don’t really take time off much; any trip is usually just to Aubrey Hall or a yacht or skiing. Or one of our properties.” Traveling had never been of particular appeal; he had everything he needed with him always. 

“You own a massive multinational real estate firm and you’ve never traveled?” She stopped, wide-eyed. “That simply won’t do. A life that works for us will include travel, then.” She practically sparkled with the possibilities. 

Instead of a deficiency, his relatively unadventurous past now felt like an asset: Something to share with Kate, see through her eyes. 

He smirked, pulling her closer, nudging a thumb just under the band of her shorts. “Where do you want to go first?” He ran his nose along her jaw, inhaling her lily perfume. 

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” She leaned in to kiss him. “I’d actually like to go to Delhi and Chennai, one day.” Her eyes flickered nervously. “If you’d be interested.” 

He tilted her chin up, kissed her more deeply. “I’d be very interested.” 

Ninety minutes — and a third round of sex for the morning — later, he watched her get ready. It felt easy , like everything had so far: showering while she applied her makeup, answering emails and reading headlines as she practiced interview answers and dressed in a houndstooth Boss suit. “Oh, please don’t,” he said with a sigh, as she pulled out the hair straightener. He liked her hair in its natural state so much more, but he also liked that it made her feel more comfortable. 

She blinked. “Excuse me?” There was a bit of an edge to her voice.

He stepped back. “I mean, it’s your hair, I seriously would never tell you what to do with it.” She was absolutely still, waiting for him to finish. “It’s just … you like it curly. I know you feel more like yourself. And I get that they’re probably sexist bellends, and it’s a job interview … but you’re fucking gorgeous , just as you are, and I hate to see you tamp that down for other people.” 

She stepped forward, kissing him lightly but soundly. “You are very sweet, and incredibly bossy.” 

“I prefer direct.” He kissed her back, humming lightly as he put a hand on her hip. 

She stepped back to the gilded mirror and put the wand away, started to magically twist and tuck her hair into some sort of complicated braided chignon. “So, when you said you’d just wander around looking for a skyscraper to buy … was that serious?” 

“I mean, maybe not the full building ,” he joked, perching himself on the vanity. The bathroom was all textures of white, pearlized mosaic tile and lots of marble. “But yeah, I’d need to find some place to launch Bridgerton Americas.” 

She put her hairbrush and the pins down. “Were you really serious about it? Moving to New York?” 

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Us first. Us always.” 

“A life that works for us ,” she corrected, quoting a different part of his incredibly romantic — if he did say so himself — declaration. “ You are an important part of us.” She stared at him, as if she wasn’t sure he considered himself important. He shifted, slightly. “And I don’t think that means we trade off … just getting our preferred ways on things.” She swallowed. He reached out to take her hand, took a breath to calm himself down. “I want to know what works for you .” 

“You say it’s a dream job,” he started, tugging her closer. She relaxed into his embrace. “If that’s the case, yes, I want to move, but London is home. So I don’t think I’d be comfortable here forever,” he admitted. Col would come home, Greg and Hy would graduate, at least Fran would probably get married, Daff would have kids, Edwina would retire, Nick would be crowned. Life was in London. “Would that be … quite alright?” Was she having second thoughts?

“Yes. Of course. I … It’s a tour-of-duty dream job,” she explained, thumbing at his ear. “Two years or so opens a lot of the other doors. And of course it’s court experience, which would get me admitted to the English bar back home.” She put her hands on his t-shirt. “And yes, especially with Appa … I don’t think I would want to stay for too long either.” 

“There’s nothing of this sort in London?” he ventured purely as a suggestion. 

“Not particularly,” she said, with a sigh. “Maybe Geneva or the Hague. So, if I take the job, we move here … what does Bridgerton Americas look like? Would the board approve?” She kissed him — careful to preserve her lipstick, but staying reassuringly close. “What’s this look like? Paint a picture of our lives.” 

“I mean …” He took the hand still on his chest, kissed her palm. “We get a few years to ourselves. It’s an adventure, we do what we please for once. A spot of time to set ourselves up … that sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

She laughed. “Paint a practical picture.” She raised her eyebrow, unimpressed with his carefree-romantic side. “You’ve won me over. Talk logistics to me.” 

He snorted. “It’s my company, but they’ve been keen to expand. I can get the votes. It’s a good, bold first move.” It wouldn’t be easy, especially since he’d already gone to bat for Colin’s concept, but he was his own man. “But we would need to get an office space, bring in people, hire, and of course I’d still have to be back at headquarters a lot.” He shrugged, a bit helpless. “It’d probably be at least a year until it’s fully up and running. And I’d still have to go back to London.” It would be unusual, to say the least, for the CEO to work from the least-established satellite office. “And maybe some other travel.” He’d need to visit the Asia, Europe, and Africa offices at least occasionally. “And I assume you’d still be flying about for work?” 

“Yeah, trials would be back in the Hague, discovery anywhere.” She frowned. “So a year, pretty much, long distance, and then you’re half-here for a year, and then we’re back in London.” 

“Hey.” He tugged her closer. “I know this is like, completely antithetical to you — and admittedly me — but please don’t stress about this right now. We have a plane, we have money, we’ll probably go at most … four days without seeing each other, truly. And it’s a year, two years.” He tucked one of her curls behind her ears. “This is a lifetime thing, OK?” He looked at her. “I mean it, we’ll make it work for us.” He brought the pinky twisted in his hand to his lips. “I promise.”  

She nodded. “I actually do know that,” she assured him with a brilliant smile. “Thank you for coming out here with me. It means a lot.” 

He smiled. “Of course.” He dropped a lingering kiss on her. “I love you. But you’re going to be late soon, aren’t you?”

She twisted his wrist to look at his watch. “Fuck. Yes.” She quickly swiped some mascara on, then threw it into her purse, ran around for her shoes. “I’ll text you lunch details. Love you. Enjoy your skyscraper hunt!” she yelled as he laughed at her.

He wandered around Central Park more than Midtown, stopping to stare at kids climbing on rock formations and the dog runs. He’d always found New York a pale, somewhat classless city, but today it looked charming, all red brick in the warm sun. He stared at trees, restaurants, food trucks, trying to imagine what a life here with Kate would look like. 

Christ, he was turning into a sap. 

Kate seemed on a high after the interview, just absolutely chuffed from the conversation. She kissed him deeply before they walked into lunch, and stumbled over the introductions (she both used his title before retracting it with a quick “fuck”, and then couldn’t figure out how to describe their relationship, eventually going with ‘partner’) to her mentor, a sharp fortysomething lawyer named Jessica who he reminded him of a younger Lady Danbury. They all talked about the job and the opportunities to shape policy and advise the Secretary-General, then she and Jessica got into a deep, fascinating (according to them) discussion on where international tribunal authority was headed, as well as more than he’d ever heard before about Kate’s workload. Jessica asked a lot of questions about the job and what Kate wanted to do with it — and then got utterly tripped up on their transcontinental plan. “You’re a freaking lord , and you’re going to be happy living here part-time?” she asked skeptically. 

Kate became quiet as they wrapped lunch, processed their passports, boarded the jet. As he took a call from the linkup to the Tokyo office, making sure everything was prepped for Col, and she answered emails next to him on the couch, her feet tucked under his thighs. “Babe?” she finally said when he hung up, poking him lightly with her big toe.

“Yes, love?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.

She blinked, tired and surprised. “Wait. Are we those people now?” 

He considered. “I quite like it if you do?”

“I do.” She gave a firm nod. “Anyways. Would you be … happy … if I took this job?” Her face was a little drawn, but clear. 

He turned more fully from his laptop, dropping his glasses. “Kate, darling, it’s your job to take.” 

“You have opinions on traffic sign placement, and whether gin is acceptable in a martini, and Hy’s use of Snapchat. Surely you have opinions on whether you’d like to move to New York?” 

He sighed, tipping the laptop screen down. He hadn’t really considered his happiness. It frankly didn’t feel like his place. He knew that she was stepping well outside of her plans for him, what with children and marriage, and it felt only egalitarian to do the same. But he had to admit he wasn’t sure how they were supposed to make decisions like this, other than draw straws. What should the balance of sacrifice in a partnership be? What determined the weight of various items — cities, children, family, money, jobs — in those conversations? “It’s your job offer; I don’t want to tell you what to do,” he started.

“I want to know how you’d feel about it, though.” 

“And I don’t want you making decisions that are based on my feelings,” he replied, feeling slightly frustrated, reaching out a hand to massage her ankle. She did that with her family and he’d be damned if he was another person she put before herself. 

But he also knew he was shit at telling anyone, specifically her, his feelings. 

So he sighed and tried again, under her anxious gaze. He realized that she was scared, and he was too, and that this was important to answer carefully. “I’ve never lived anywhere but London or Kent — hell, Kate, I spend most of my time with people I’ve known for decades. It’s been expected my entire life that eventually I would move into homes my family has owned for centuries and probably die in one of them.” At some point, he should probably tell her that his mother planned on vacating Bridgerton House within five years. “To me, being with you above all is the absolute priority, and I’m finding myself … more flexible —” Here, she barked a laugh — “on the details than people might expect. It would be hard, but we are in a position where we can absolutely make it work, though the time and the travel isn’t ideal — for either of us. But the job matters a lot to you, so it’s absolutely worth it. Your career is important, and you’re brilliant at it.” He tapped a pen against his laptop thoughtfully. “And I really do think, especially at the outset of this, it’s probably good to have a little distance from our families. They’re awfully meddlesome.” He shifted her to straddle his lap as she giggled. He remembered her entreaty that he listen more, and swallowed. “Where’s your head at?” 

She still looked a little scared, but she took a breath before starting to speak. “I think … if it were just me, if the equation didn’t involve you, yeah, I’d go for it.” Fuck, it was basically the opposite of what he’d hoped to hear, and her eyes had that tender, terrified, overly compassionate look that told him she knew that too. “Something like this is truly just for a few years to get the boost. Otherwise the timing is OK: Appa’s relatively steady, Mum can help him, Eddie’s career keeps her traveling.” She worried his shirt collar. “But it’s not just that your life is in London and your family and your job and friends and all your lordly duties.” Here she rolled her eyes. “It’s also what you are to me. I don’t want to … be long distance for two years and constantly relying on your private plane to get a few extra hours together. I can think of a better use of those hours.” She gave him a quick, flirtatious smolder and kiss. “And I …. I don’t want you to resent me if I take this.” She sighed, moved to cup the back of his head. “That was quite a lot of thoughts.” 

He ran his hands up and down her sides. “Welcome thoughts, though,” he encouraged. “I don’t want to say ‘I’m happy if you’re happy’ but … your happiness matters an awful lot to me. And so, if you’re happy, I can’t resent you, alright? It’s impossible.” That, at least, was a completely easy portion of the conversation. 

She kissed him more deeply, then cleared some hair off his forehead. “But yours matters to me as well,” she whispered. She sighed, just a little. “We’ll figure something out, yeah?” 

He beamed, confident for the first time that it was true. “Us first, us always,” he promised, tying their pinkies together with a quick kiss.

Pen sipped at the awful concoction, some sort of kale smoothie with a lot of ginger and caffeine powder, intended to stop up her epic hangover. She’d been out with the Kensington Bred crew last night, and between the long pauses for camera set-ups and the inanity of Pru’s friends’ tears, she’d had far more cheap red wine (production was hardly going to spring for the smooth stuff) than she intended for a Monday. 

One of the producers had then pulled her aside and asked if she was interested in a contract for next season. “You have amazing stank-faces,” the woman had said, as if it was the highest praise anyone should aspire to.   

But perhaps, she thought waspishly as she scrolled through the morning’s Whistledown tips, it was the best next move. After all, El and Col had ruined everything else — or maybe she had. Fran had texted several times, but she’d stopped in recent days. Initially she’d felt like a failure, hiding out at her Mum’s, but really, her mother and sisters weren’t too awful. At the end of the day, Bridgertons were just that — Bridgertons. Not hers. Never hers. 

And as Lady Portia always reminded Pen when found her way home: all you really had in this world, if you were lucky, was your own family. 

She’d been more creative on Whistledown since she’d told Col off, finally unlocking the treasure chest of gossip she’d been sitting on for months: the dirty details on breakups, eating disorders, bribes and payoffs, tawdry affairs. The reception had been wild . It was honestly a plot on Kensington now and if she joined the cast, surely the reveal would make excellent television? Everyone would know. She’d be so liked. She’d be so feared.

She’d be so respected.  

A phone dropped in front of her, Whistledown’s latest on the screen. She looked up, startled.

Eloise. Her nose flaring so hard that her septum ring shook. “This is low, even for you, Penelope,” she said, voice a hiss. “You are a fucking awful human being.” 

She didn’t need to know what the post was: This morning’s roundup was all about rumors on unplanned pregnancies and their outcomes. Goodness knows there were enough affairs and mistresses to go round, it was well past time Whistledown weighed in. 

And she’d included Marina — who’d had a very early-stage miscarriage when dating Col — on that list.  

Pen looked up instead. “How did you find me?” 

“Your social media addiction gets the best of you. You tagged your smoothie, you dolt.” With a sigh, El sat down. “Col had no idea about Marina. None of us did.” 

“Well, perhaps he should pay more attention to those around him, then.” Pen sniffed, unrepentant. 

“Marina’s your cousin. Do you care about whose lives you’re ruining?” 

“Awfully rich coming from a Bridgerton,” she retorted, flashing her eyes toward El’s Chanel sunglasses. “Between the colonizing and the capitalism I’d perhaps check that perspective.”   

El’s mouth twisted in fury. “Col’s leaving,” she announced. Pen went white and El looked grimly proud that she’d pulled one on Whistledown. “For at least a year, I’d reckon. Ant liked the idea you pitched and now he’s giving him seed funding. Colin flies to Tokyo tomorrow. We’re doing a goodbye thing tonight.” El eyes flickered. “You’re not invited.” 

Pen sat back. She couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud of Col, even as she completely hated him. He deserved this and would do so well. Then — “good riddance,” she replied coolly. She could never admit it, but he’d held her heart in his hands and completely crushed it. 

El, mad or aghast or both, snatched her phone. “Listen,” she started. “At this point, you’ve insulted at least half of Society. If anyone finds out who you are, you’re never invited to any party again.” She licked her lip. “And I have half a mind, after what you’ve done, to tell everyone .” Pen’s breath caught, and El stared straight at her. “But if I did that, I’d have precisely half a mind. Which is about as much as you have. So here’s my deal.” She folded her arms, and Pen missed her friend, desperately. Eloise had been her other half for twenty years, knew her better than her own family did. And now, everything between them had just been so brutally shredded, so badly and deeply that there was no going back, not ever. “I will keep your secret. I will make excuses to Fran why you’re moving out.” They had not discussed that, but it hardly needed a discussion, Pen supposed. “But you are never going to write about Bridgertons in your little instagram fantasy again, alright? Ant, Daff, Fran, Ben. Col, Si, Kate.” So Ant had chased Kate to New York. “Hell, Greg and Hy one day. What they’re doing, who they’re dating, keep it off your pages. Write about me, for all I care, but keep. My family. Out of everyone’s newsfeed.” 

Tears pricked at Pen’s eyes. She’d gone too far, she’d gone too far with all of it, and yet she couldn’t go back. “Eloise —”

“I — don’t .” El practically recoiled into herself. “You were my best friend, Pen. I would have done anything for you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Pen, near tears herself, shook her head. “No. I don’t think you would have.” Her tone was heavy, and sad, more than mad. Twenty-four simply shouldn’t feel this heavy, should it? 

El gave her a long look, and a sad nod. “I think I would have. Anyways. Stop posting, and I’ll keep your secret. But I can’t be friends with you again, Pen. Leave my family alone.” 

She sat back, feeling completely drained. Finally, she nodded. “I will. I promise.” 

With a final look, El disappeared. 

Pen put her head on her hands, and sobbed quietly.

“My goodness. This is quite the scene.” 

Pen looked up. She wasn’t sure how long El had been gone, or how long she’d been crying. 

It was Queen Char. 

Oh goodness, she was so utterly fucked. 

“Queen Char,” she squeaked. “I mean …. Mrs. Queensbury.” 

“Queen Char is fine.” She sat her Birkin on the table gently. “I prefer it, actually.” 

“Naturally,” Pen replied, trying to surreptitiously wipe back her tears. “Have a seat,” she added, but it was quite unnecessary: she’d already sat. 

Queen Char put her hands in her lap, studying Pen. Pen tried not to squirm. “You haven’t responded to my messages, Lady Whistledown.” 

“I — what! — did Eloise —” 

“Eloise Bridgerton knew ?” Charlotte asked. “Oh, she was supposed to tell me.”