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Anthony Bridgerton’s fortieth birthday was the talk of the Ton for the entire week before its arrival. It was well-known that his father, the late Edmund Bridgerton, did not pass the age of thirty-nine before his terrible accident in his garden. One must wonder, seeing such circumstances, what must it feel like for the Viscount of the Bridgerton House to surpass his father in years of living.
Lord Bridgerton celebrated his birthday—This Author believes that it was his fortieth––at home with his family.
This Author was not invited.
Nonetheless, details of the fête have reached This Author's always attentive ears, and it sounds to have been a most amusing party. The day began with a short concert: Lord Bridgerton on the trumpet and Lady Bridgerton on the bansuri. Mrs. Sharma (Lady Bridgerton's sister, who is apparently becoming well acquainted with his Royal Highness Prince Friedrich of Prussia) offered to mediate on the pianoforte, but her offer was refused.
According to the dowager viscountess, a more discordant concert has never been performed, and we are told that eventually young Miles Bridgerton stood atop his chair and begged his parents to cease.
We are also told that no one scolded the boy for his rudeness, but rather just heaved huge sighs of relief when Lord and Lady Bridgerton laid down their instruments.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 17 SEPTEMBER 1824
“She must have a spy in the family,” he grumbled on through the corridor after his wife read him this day’s papers, “Paying anyone for the most basic of information…I bet it must be Benedict, he’s always been jealous of my conquests.”
Kate laughed as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, “And how would that possibly work?” The small candle on her nightstand made her skin look even more golden, and her hair even more shinier and, if it were physically possible, Anthony would have fallen even more in love with her.
He walked into their room with a small, amused smile “Possibilities are endless. He is very gullible, I'll tell you that much.”
“That’s mean.”
“But true,” he laid a kiss on her temple as he reached for their wardrobe, when she looked at him disapprovingly, he added, “Kate, he’s blind, for Christ’s sake! He couldn’t recognize Sophie when she was standing right in front of him…for weeks! He could have been gossiping about our affairs to Lady Whistledown thinking it was his wife.”
“And pray tell us,” she replied, “why would Sophie ask him about our affairs if she is present in most of them?”
“Well, I can only presume–”
“Anthony, they just had a child, for the love of God, their third one for the matter. Besides, Whistledown didn’t notice your birthday was today, I’m certain Benedict would, at least, know that.”
“Trifling matter, really.” he mumbled, “Everything else she said was right though.”
“I know, right?” There’s a smile on her face, a genuine one, and Anthony wonders what side of his unilateral war she is on, “She’s impressive!”, she brings her candelabrum to sit next to her on the nightstand near their bed, “But I did think her comment on our performance was too harsh...discordant? Really?”
He chuckled, walking towards her,“We aren’t exactly the best of players, dear.”
She scoffed and hit his arm playfully. “Speak for yourself, dear.” The last word came out as mockery, playful, gentle mockery, “I happen to find myself to be a superb bansuri player.”
“I think our two sons might disagree…the entire ton for that matter.” It comes out soft as his arms go around her waist because she makes him soft, everything about her does.
There was little that brought him more peace than talking to her, lying next to her. Simply her. Her existence. Kate’s existence. The one that made him want to live again, one that bore him three beautiful children, one that (only by existing next to him) made his worth living for.
Anthony couldn’t understand how one could possibly live without love.
She turned to smile at him, then turned back to check the clock in the corner of their bedroom, something Anthony had been somberly afraid of doing since the sky turned dark, “It’s almost midnight.”
He hums in response.
“Do you want me to wake the boys?”
He shook his head, “Let them sleep. I just want you.”
He spent the majority of his morning in his office staring at his father’s portrait. And then, he found himself talking, non-stop. About his children, two boys and a one-year-old girl, about his siblings and their endless quarrels, about Eloise refusing to marry, about Colin, who’s finally finding his way home, about all seven nieces and nephews he now has, about Kate. About how he loved her so damn much, that she could have him with his hands tied around his back and he couldn’t trust her more. About Francesca’s marriage to the Earl of Kilmartin and Hyacinth’s insatiable nature. About his mother, who started taking up oil painting as a hobby and is quite damn good. About how he misses him, every day he misses him so much that it burns him to enter his office knowing he’s never going to be half a goof viscount than him. About Gregory, who called him Father last week and he still doesn’t know how to respond.
The last two minutes leading to his birthday were spent in silence next to his wife, who held his hand until the twelfth bell tolled and echoed in their room.
“You’re forty.”
His breath comes out hastily, “Yes,” an extra breath, “Yes. I am.”
“How do you feel, my love?” she asks, hands dancing around his shoulders.
“So damned and old.”
They both smiled, bittersweetly, and Kate decided to play along and hitted him playfully on the shoulder, where he fell back on the mattress in dramatic response, a typical nocturnal scene between the married couple.
“I’m nearly an elder now, Kate!” he faked a hoarse voice and Kate wondered how she'd managed to stay married to him all these ten years, “You mustn’t treat me so hastily!”
Kate immediately pouted and turned to face him, both of them in bed, too close to one another to play innocent games, “I apologize, my love.” she said barely above a whisper, “I forgot you became such a delicate creature.”
“Absolutely, my darling.” he whispers in her ear, "You must be careful or else I could break.”
She’s on top of him now, it’s a familiar scene they got used to for the last ten years of their marriage, two sons, one daughter after all, but every time Anthony kisses Kate like this, with her mouth open and her eyes shut close, he’s immediately brought back to 1824, where he is twenty-nine and she’s twenty and a kiss has never felt so damn good in his entire career as a Rake with a capital R.
“Perhaps, dear,” Kate whispers, it almost came out as a moan as her husband pulled her in for a kiss, pulling her hair gently, “I supposed you’re not too delicate to have me riding you, though?”
“Not too delicate at all, love.”
And that’s all the confirmation Kathani Sharma-Bridgerton needs.