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Chapter Text

The week between Christmas and New Year always teetered into a haze of timelessness. Even Aubrey Hall, stately and still in its blanket of snow, seemed caught in a holiday hangover. The December air carried a sharpness that turned breath to mist and made every sound echo brittle across the countryside.

The house sat waiting. Quiet—for now.

“We made excellent timing,” Anthony announced triumphantly, pulling the black SUV into place as if shaving two minutes off the satnav estimate were a personal victory.

Kate arched her brow. “You refused to let Newton use the bathroom.”

“He went before we left.  We both know that he was only trying to detour us to the dog park. Plus, it was only a two-hour drive.” He checked his watch, smug. “An hour and fifty-eight.”

Kate rolled her eyes and opened the door, her boots crunching against fresh snow.

“Do not move,” Anthony said firmly. “I’ll be right around to help you.”

“I can manage—”

“There’s snow on the ground.” He was already popping the hatch, hauling out two matching suitcases with tactical precision.

“A dusting!” Kate countered, releasing Newton, who bounded happily toward the door, tail a blur.

Anthony gathered the bags under one arm and extended his free hand. Kate hesitated—her independence prickled—but she reminded herself this was his way of caring, maddening though it was, and slipped her hand into his.

The scent of cedar and polish wrapped around them as Anthony pushed open the front door. Home.

“I need to check the locks, test the heating, ensure the guest rooms are ready,” Anthony rattled off, already scanning the entryway.

“Anthony,” Kate drawled, “it is not an invasion. It’s a family gathering.”

He ignored her, adjusting the thermostat with the solemnity of a general. Newton barked, and Anthony sighed but bent to scratch behind his ears, the faintest smile betraying him.

Kate noticed the other thing too—the way his hand brushed her stomach every time he passed close by.

“You’ll have to stop that,” she said, catching one of the suitcases and trailing after him.

“Stop what?”

“Hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You are most definitely hovering.”

At the top of the stairs, he nearly collided into her. His hands landed at her waist instinctively, pulling her in.

“Fine,” Anthony admitted. “I am…remaining purposely nearby. I can’t help it.”

Kate’s eyes softened. “We could tell them. I’m nearly three months—”

Anthony froze, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “Soon,” he promised. But in his mind: When it’s safe. When I know you’re both well.

“Not this weekend?”

“This weekend will bring its own chaos,” Anthony said, voice low. “Let’s let this be ours a little longer.”

“I thought I heard voices!” Violet’s head appeared around the doorway of the upstairs sitting room. In a moment she was sweeping them both into a warm hug, her perfume faintly floral, her smile bright.

“It is good to see you,” she said, kissing Kate’s cheek before turning to Anthony. “And on time, no less.”

“Ah, well, the ETA is but an object to beat,” Kate teased, sending her husband a pointed look.

“And you’ll be happy to know, I beat it,” Anthony replied, as smug as when he’d said it the first time.

“It’s going on his CV,” Kate said dryly.

Before Anthony could retort, a blur barreled into Kate.

“Kate!” Hyacinth squealed, hugging her with such enthusiasm that Newton barked in alarm.

“Hyacinth—” Anthony began, only for Kate’s warning glance to silence him.

“It is good to see you too,” Kate said warmly, hugging the younger girl back. “How was your holiday? I hope you haven’t been hiding away studying the whole time.”

“Hardly,” Violet snorted. “She’s been tormenting Gregory instead.”

As if summoned, Gregory appeared from the stairwell with the self-satisfaction of someone who had overheard just enough to make trouble. “I’m her favorite sparring partner. Keeps my reflexes sharp.”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “He’s simply jealous because I’m faster with a retort.”

Anthony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Kate caught his hand before he could say anything more and smiled. Home. Chaos and all.

The crunch of tires on gravel carried through the frosted windows, moments before the front door burst open with a gust of cold air and Colin’s familiar laugh.

“Gosh, it’s freezing! I told you it would be,” he declared, stomping snow from his boots. The scent of sharp winter air and damp wool came in with him, swirling into the warmth of the hall.

Penelope trailed behind, cheeks pink from the wind, her scarf slightly askew. She dragged a suitcase far too large for her frame, each step an effort against the lip of the entryway.

“You were the one who insisted we walk up from the car park instead of waiting for Gregory to help,” she said, puffing as she tried to haul the bag up the step.

Colin plucked it from her hands with infuriating ease. “It builds character, Pen. Besides, I didn’t want the Uber driver to have to fuss with the turnabout.”

“I’ll transfer you my half—” she began.

“No you won’t,” he cut in smoothly.

“But I should make it up to you.”

Colin’s breath caught.  For the briefest instant, his mind conjured the memory of Violet’s birthday—her lips against his, the heady shock of it—and how very easily he could imagine such a payment.  He forced the thought down, his smile tightening as he shifted her suitcase to one arm.   

“You can start,” he cleared his throat, “by explaining why you thought you needed half of Mayfair for a two-day trip.”

“That’s rich,” she said, arching a brow, “coming from the man who packed three suitcases for Greece.”

“Two,” he corrected, dragging her luggage toward the stairs. A pause. “Fine. Two and a half.”

Hyacinth, perched dramatically on the banister, gave a little squeal. “Penelope is here!” she announced to the entire household as though she were the town crier. She darted down to fling her arms around Penelope, nearly tripping over Newton, who barked excitedly at her heels. Gregory, meanwhile, lounged in the doorway with a grin that promised nothing but mischief.

Colin let the chatter wash over him, though his gaze kept wandering back to Penelope: the way her laughter rang out as Hyacinth linked arms with her, how the lamplight caught in the copper strands of her hair. Familiar. Too familiar. And yet—different. Something had shifted.

“What?” Penelope caught him staring, her lips still curved from laughter.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though heat prickled up the back of his neck. He hoisted her suitcase up the first step, pretending the sheer bulk of it demanded his full attention. “Just trying to figure out whose body you’ve hidden in here.”

Her eyes narrowed, though amusement softened them. “That’s my secret, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His grin faltered—just a beat, almost imperceptibly. But the teasing words lingered, carrying a weight he couldn’t quite explain.

“Colin!” Violet appeared at the top of the stairs, her smile lighting the hall as she descended to greet them. She embraced him tightly before pressing a kiss to Penelope’s temple. “And Penelope! I wasn’t expecting you two to arrive together.”

“It was efficient,” Colin said, the excuse ready on his tongue.

“Yes,” Penelope agreed lightly. “Very convenient.”

Violet’s eyes flickered between them—fond, but searching, as if trying to place something she couldn’t yet name. She let it pass with a warm smile, ushering them down the hall. “Well, never mind that now. Colin, I’ve put you in your usual room. Penelope, you’re just next door.”

Colin nodded, forcing a polite smile as he lifted her bag once more. Next door. Of course. That was convenient. Perfectly ordinary.

Two days, he told himself firmly. You can handle being in the room next to Penelope for two days without doing something idiotic.

The chime of the doorbell echoed through the hall, softer than Colin’s boisterous arrival had been, almost cautious. Where Colin had blown in on a laugh, Benedict and Sophie slipped quietly through the door as though careful not to disturb the air.

Newton, however, was not fooled. He barked a string of alerts and bounded forward, nails clicking against the polished wood.

Sophie, cheeks pink from the cold, carried a single, neat bag. Benedict followed, his coat collar turned up against the wind, three bags balanced precariously in his hands—one of them suspiciously lumpy with the shape of canvases.” 

Anthony’s eyebrow arched as he greeted them. “Please tell me you didn’t pack art supplies.”

Benedict adjusted the strap of the bulging bag, as if the quick movement might disguise it. “Just a few. Inspiration strikes anywhere.”

Sophie shook her head, though the fondness in her expression softened her words. “A few? You packed more brushes than shirts.”

“Clothes are optional,” Benedict countered smoothly. He leaned closer, voice pitched for her alone. “Art is not.”

Her blush deepened, though she turned the moment neatly by passing her coat to Gregory with a warm thank-you.

“Benedict!” Violet descended the steps with arms open, drawing her son into a quick hug before kissing Sophie’s cheek. “And Sophie, dearest, it is always such a joy. I was so sorry to hear Posy wouldn’t be joining us.”

“She wanted to,” Sophie replied. “But she and Hugh are visiting his family this week.”

“Ah.” Violet gave her hand a squeeze. “Another time, then.”

Hyacinth peered around from the banister, eyes narrowing at Benedict’s suspicious luggage. “You really did bring the paints again, didn’t you?”

“Just in case,” Benedict replied, aiming for nonchalance.

“Just in case what?” Gregory piped up. “You get bored of us?”

“Entirely possible,” Benedict said with a grin that earned a laugh.

But as Sophie linked her hand through his arm and led him deeper into the house, she felt the subtle tightness in his grip on the satchel. To everyone else, his art was a charming quirk, a novelty. Only she knew the truth—that the weight of those sketchbooks was heavier than his family could guess, heavier than even he sometimes let himself admit.

The slam of a car door broke the temporary lull, followed by the unmistakable chorus of a toddler’s protests. Within moments, the front door heaved open against a gust of wind, bags thudding against the frame as Simon and Daphne staggered inside.

“Doggy!” August shrieked from his perch in the stroller, chubby hands reaching for Newton, who was already circling like a soldier welcoming a long-lost comrade. The corgi barked so loudly that Violet appeared at once, sweeping down the hall in a rustle of determination.

“August!” Her voice warmed the air as she plucked her grandson from the stroller with the ease of long practice. “My darling boy, I’ve missed you so much.”

“Grandmama!  I missed you!” he cried again, clapping his fists together as Newton leapt at Violet’s legs.  “We flew on a big plane!”

Colin appeared next, swooping in with an exaggerated cry of “There’s my Auggie man!” He tried, unsuccessfully, to wrest the boy from Violet’s arms.

“Colin, help your sister,” Violet said briskly, pivoting away from his grasp without loosening her hold on the toddler.

“Right, of course.” Colin obeyed, already scooping up two abandoned suitcases. “Though I’ll note you somehow managed to pack more than Penelope, Daphne,” he added, grinning.

“Let it go, Colin!” came Penelope’s voice from the sitting room.

Simon’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, even as he shouldered the remaining luggage. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t join in the chorus of welcome,” he muttered. “Three hours in a tin can of a plane, piloted by what I can only assume was a drunken fool…”

“Oh, hush,” Daphne cut in, though exhaustion softened the edge of her voice. She stepped forward to embrace her mother quickly, her eyes darting to her son who was already giggling in Violet’s arms. Relief unfurled in her chest, but it tangled almost instantly with guilt.

How will I manage another when one already leaves me breathless?

“You’re here now,” Violet said firmly, as if she could read her daughter’s thoughts. “That’s all that matters. I remember traveling with little ones—it's not for the faint of heart.”

Daphne smiled weakly, grateful for the words, though they didn’t quite dispel the knot in her stomach. She pressed her temple, letting the din of Newton’s barks, Colin’s chatter, and her son’s squeals swirl around her. For a moment, she let herself sink into the sanctuary of simply being home.

The house had only just begun to recover from the storm of Daphne’s arrival when the front door opened once more, this time without fanfare. No clatter of luggage, no chorus of greetings. Just the whisper of cold air and the faint thud of a suitcase being set down with care.

Francesca slipped inside first, her scarf tucked neatly around her throat, cheeks pink but not flushed. John followed at her shoulder, two modest bags in hand. Even Newton, who had barked himself hoarse at every previous arrival, gave only a token wag of the tail before settling back onto the rug.

“Good boy,” Francesca murmured, crouching to give him a pat as though rewarding him for his discretion.

From somewhere down the hall came Colin’s booming laugh, Simon’s lower grumble, and Violet’s unmistakable coo at her grandson. John’s lips quirked wryly. “Sounds like the chaos is well underway.”

“Likely in the dining room,” Francesca replied. Her eyes slid toward the stairwell instead. “Perhaps we might unpack first. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

John shifted his grip on the bags. “You know where I hear has very reliable quiet? Scotland.”

Francesca’s mouth twitched, half exasperation, half affection. “You do enjoy reminding me.”

“I only mean,” he said gently, lowering his voice as they moved past the entryway, “that the sooner you tell your mother, the easier it will be. Secrets don’t tend to thrive in this house.”

Her hand brushed his arm, a fleeting anchor. “I’ll tell her,” Francesca promised softly. “At some point.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Some point before we actually move?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she sighed, though her fingers lingered in the crook of his elbow. For all her reluctance, there was something steadier about her when he was near, as if she drew calm from his quiet certainty.

They disappeared up the staircase, their presence almost swallowed by the chatter below. If the rest of the Bridgertons were sparks and noise, Francesca and John were the hush between. And for now, that suited them both.

The sun was already sinking, casting a bruised gray light across the fields, when the crunch of tires signaled the final arrival of the day. A rental car pulled up the drive, its headlights briefly cutting across the frost-slick stone of Aubrey Hall before winking out.

Eloise tumbled out first, stretching with exaggerated relief as her boots hit the ground. “See? That wasn’t too terrible.”

Phillip shut his door more deliberately, lifting their bags from the back with a muttered huff. “The train was delayed two hours. Then the satnav lost signal four times. I’m fairly certain we circled the same village green on  three different occasions.”

“I didn’t say it was perfect,” Eloise countered, brushing hair from her eyes as the wind whipped it loose again. “I only said it wasn’t a complete disaster.”

His lips tugged at the corners, soft despite himself. “Next time, I choose the mode of transport.”

“Fine,” Eloise allowed, slipping an arm through his as they started toward the door. “As long as you’re prepared for me to complain about it regardless.”

Phillip chuckled, though his hand tightened briefly at her waist, as though drawing courage from her nearness. Eloise, ever attuned, caught the tension and produced her phone from her back pocket like a talisman. “Look,” she said, holding the screen up between them.

On it were Amanda and Oliver, nearly lost behind a mountain of ice cream, their grins smeared with chocolate.

Phillip’s face softened instantly. “They look…happy.”

“Elated,” Eloise corrected, though a small ache pulsed in her chest as she tucked the phone away. “We’ll be back with them soon. Just two nights.”

“Two nights,” he echoed, his voice quiet now as they stopped in front of the heavy wooden doors of Aubrey Hall. His gaze lingered on the towering façade, and for the first time all day, Eloise saw nerves flicker at the edges of his calm.

“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” she asked, keeping her tone light but searching his face all the same. “Meeting the Bridgertons?”

“I don’t believe I have much of a choice.”

“No, you don’t,” she admitted, mischief in her eyes, though the honesty of her next words softened it. “But it would make me feel better if you were sure.”

Phillip’s laugh rumbled low, quiet enough only for her to hear as he leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. “If you’re asking whether I regret this,” he said, nudging at the slim diamond ring on her left hand with a finger, “then the answer is never.”

Eloise’s breath hitched in spite of herself. She quickly covered the moment by slipping the ring from her finger and dropping it into Phillip’s palm. “Here. You’d better hide yours too.”

Phillip obediently slid his own band into his pocket, though his thumb brushed it once before letting go. Together, they stood for a moment longer on the threshold, conspirators in a secret that could unravel everything before the weekend was through.

Phillip’s hand brushed the door handle, but it was Eloise who seized it and pushed forward, her usual impatience disguised as confidence. Warmth and the hum of voices spilled out into the cold, carrying the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon.

“Right,” she declared, more to herself than him, “let’s get this over with.”

Before Phillip could summon a reply, Newton’s bark rang out like a bell announcing their arrival. A second later, Hyacinth’s voice followed, shrill with excitement: “They’re here!”

Phillip shot Eloise a look that was equal parts apprehension and resignation. She arched an eyebrow in response and murmured, “Welcome to the lion’s den.”

Chapter Text

Chaos descended like a tidal wave. The warmth of the house—fire crackle, the sweet edge of mulled wine, the sharper tang of wet wool drying—rushed up to meet them, along with a cacophony of voices. Newton darted between Phillip’s boots, barking jubilantly, as figures crowded into the entryway from every direction.

Violet broke through the middle of it all with a regal air, her smile the sort that silenced arguments and soothed nerves in equal measure. She clasped her daughter’s arms. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

“Yes, well, trains might be romantic,” Eloise replied, “but they are about as reliable as Colin’s directions.”

“And you must be Phillip,” Violet turned to him warmly. “It is so nice to finally meet you.”

Phillip shifted the small ceramic pot he’d been clutching since they left the car and held it out to her. “For you. A rosemary plant. Useful in cooking…and for remembrance.”

Violet’s face softened as she accepted it, fingertips brushing the fragrant leaves. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”

The gesture nearly drowned beneath the ensuing roar of greetings. Names tumbled one atop another, Hyacinth’s shrill enthusiasm, Gregory’s teasing, Colin’s too-loud welcome. It was impossible to track who said what, only that everyone seemed determined to greet him all at once. Phillip resisted the urge to tug at his collar; the press of bodies and the flood of voices made the entryway feel about half its actual size. So this was the lion’s den, he thought. All teeth, no chance to run.

“Right,” Eloise muttered, squeezing his hand over the din. Then, louder: “Listen up!”

The chatter dipped, though Auggie’s babbles filled the lull. Eloise held up their joined hands like an announcement. “Everyone, this is Phillip. Let’s just go ahead and knock out a few common questions already asked in the group chat—yes, he’s real, no he isn’t being paid to be here, nor held against his will. He’s six-foot-two, allergic to cashews, and deeply enjoys plants.”

Phillip willed his expression to remain neutral, though the crease at his brow betrayed him. Eloise glanced sidelong at him. “That cover it?”

“I believe so,” he managed.

“Excellent,” Eloise said briskly. “Then shall we eat? I’m starving.”

***

The dining room at Aubrey Hall buzzed with the easy noise of reunion. Candles flickered, glasses clinked, and conversation overlapped until it was nearly impossible to tell who was speaking to whom.

Violet, at the head of the table, looked positively radiant. “How wonderful it is,” she declared, “to have every one of my children beneath this roof again. My heart is quite full.”

“Your wineglass is quite full too,” Gregory muttered, though not quietly enough.

Hyacinth gasped, affronted. “Gregory!”

“What? It was a compliment.”

Violet only shook her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Some things never change.”

The room filled with overlapping voices once more. Simon leaned toward Daphne. "You see? I told you the noise would drown out August's babbling."

Daphne handed the happy toddler a roll from the breadbasket, "You were right," she said, a small wave of relief washing over her that at least this worry was cured for the moment.

“What was that?” Simon teased.  “I don’t think I heard you correctly.” 

“I said,” Daphne repeated.  “You were right.  Don’t look so smug.  There’s a first time for everything.” 

The room was never quiet long enough for one voice to dominate.  Conversations overlapped in pockets—Gregory trying to swipe Newton’s paw from under the table, Hyacinth insisting Sophie reveal which Bridgerton was her favorite, Anthony arguing with Kate about who had booked the better ski resort years ago—-yet Violet’s voice cut clear as a bell. 

“Phillip, don’t take it personally that I’m about to use this time to get to know you better. Eloise has been surprisingly tight-lipped about your relationship.”

Eloise clocked the slight tightening of his jaw. He was smiling—calm, even—but she knew his tell. His hand flexed once on the tablecloth before he smoothed it flat.

“I have not been that secretive,” Eloise countered, her tone sharper than intended. “Forgive me if I didn’t want to pester him into presenting proof of address and three forms of identification.”

“Could’ve been helpful for the background Anthony tried to run,” Colin remarked, half-drowned out by Gregory trying to balance a pea on the edge of his knife. Newton sat up straighter under the table, waiting for it to fall.

“How did you two meet?” Anthony pressed from down the table.

“Online,” Phillip said, straightforward.

Colin opened his mouth and then promptly shut it, as if he had thought better of his statement.  

“Online dating?” Penelope asked, sharing a look with Colin that seemed to carry the responsibility of saving him from himself. 

“Actually,” Eloise cut in before her mother could choke on her water. “I read an article he published—it was…interesting. I had thoughts.”

“Shocking,” Benedict said with mock gravity, earning a laugh from Sophie beside him.

Phillip cleared his throat and continued, sticking to the story they’d agreed upon. “She found my email on the university staff website and decided to share those thoughts. At length.”

Phillip reached for his glass, hiding a faint smile against the rim. “A rather spirited critique, I might add. I’d never received a six-paragraph rebuttal from a stranger before.”

“She was bored,” Colin said with a smirk. “You should’ve seen the letters she used to send me when I traveled. Entire essays on why Greece had better olives than Italy.”

“Essays?” Hyacinth gasped, delighted. “Tell me you still have them.”

“No,” Colin said firmly. “They mysteriously disappeared from my luggage.”

“Convenient,” Eloise said sweetly, her smile far too sharp for anyone to mistake it as agreement.

Violet leaned forward, quieting the noise around her with little more than presence. “So, Mr. Crane, tell me—what was it about Eloise’s spirited critique that made you respond?”

Phillip’s fork stilled. For just a second, Eloise saw the hesitation—the calculation. Then he chuckled softly. “Well, Ms. Bridgerton, most people who disagree with my work stop at a comment section. She took the time to write. And she was thorough.”

“Thorough,” Anthony repeated with a smirk. “That’s one word for Eloise.”

“Annoying is another,” Gregory muttered, earning himself a sharp jab from Hyacinth.

Phillip went on, steady now. “But it wasn’t one email. She wrote again. And again. And eventually dared me to prove her wrong over coffee.”

Benedict let out a laugh, loud enough to cut through the clatter of cutlery. “That sounds more like Eloise.”

Eloise lifted her chin. “And he did not prove me wrong. Not entirely.”

Phillip’s thumb brushed against the back of her hand under the table, absent, protective. “Not entirely,” he echoed, softer now. Violet’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly at the tone.

“So you teach?” Simon asked, distracted as he pulled a butter-smeared roll away from August’s fist.

“Botany,” Phillip confirmed.

“And do you enjoy it?” Francesca’s voice was quieter, but Phillip met her eyes.

“Most days,” he admitted. “Though research is where my heart lies—discovering new species, improving crop yield. Knowing your work might feed someone you’ll never meet.” He shrugged. “Teaching pays the bills.”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “You make plants sound romantic. Eloise, is that what swept you off your feet?”

“Hardly,” Eloise said dryly, though her hand gripped Phillip’s knee beneath the table.

“Will you teach me,” Gregory leaned in, “to woo someone with compost?”

Phillip chuckled, easing. “Compost, no. But I can find you an excellent florist.”

“This is absurd,” Eloise muttered, cheeks warm.

“Absurd indeed,” Kate mouthed to Anthony, who was watching the exchange with vested interest.

“And what, exactly, are your intentions with my sister?” Anthony asked at last.

Kate kicked him under the table. “You act as though Eloise still needs her guardian’s blessing. She does not.” She gave Phillip a quick, apologetic smile. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I think he does,” Benedict added cheerfully, always ready to stir.

Eloise’s back stiffened.  “Really, Anthony, what century do you think we live in?”

But Phillip just exhaled and held Anthony’s gaze. “My intention is to keep up with her. Which I’ve already discovered is no small task.”

Kate’s smile widened. “Does that suit your needs? Or will you continue your cross-examination?”

“I have no further questions,” Anthony grunted, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed approval.

Eloise’s hand remained on Phillip’s knee as the gentle hum of conversation swelled again—Colin launching into another travel tale, Hyacinth pestering Sophie, August squealing with delight at Newton under the table. Confidence bloomed in Eloise’s chest, reckless but undeniable. She knew this had been the right call: let them fall for Phillip first, then reveal—months down the road—that they had already eloped.

Daphne’s eyes lingered on her sister, catching the quiet glow in her expression. “And you didn’t think to mention any of this sooner?” she asked across the table, voice pitched low beneath Colin’s story.

“You’re all married,” Eloise replied, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Forgive me if I didn’t want the interrogation before the relationship had even begun.”

“Well, personally,” Benedict added, “I think email-turned-romance is positively poetic. Words are far more seductive than swipes, if you ask me.”

“No one asked you,” Sophie said, though her smile softened the jab.

“Done!” August cried, dropping another chunk of chicken to the floor as Newton’s tail thumped furiously.

“Well then,” Violet declared, setting her napkin aside. “I believe the masses have spoken. Living room, everyone. There’s tea for those who want it, brandy for those who need it, and a fire already going.”

Chairs scraped back. In the shuffle, Violet caught Phillip’s arm. “Well, Mr. Crane, you seem to have survived your first trial by Bridgerton. Not all do.”

Phillip inclined his head, meeting her gaze evenly. “I imagine not. But Eloise assures me I’m up to the challenge.”

“Anthony challenged me to a duel after my first meal here,” Simon offered, conspiratorial. “With water pistols. But a duel all the same.”

“As I said,” Eloise whispered, slipping her hand through Phillip’s arm as they followed the family out. “Welcome to the lion’s den.”

Chapter Text

The sitting room was already aglow when the family filed in, the fire crackling merrily, the scent of pine logs seeping into the fabric of the old curtains. Newton bounded ahead, tail wagging furiously, before collapsing under Violet’s sweeping dress as though her hem were his rightful throne. August toddled after him, brandishing a wooden spoon he had somehow smuggled from the dining room, squealing when Simon caught him up mid-pursuit.

The hum of voices layered quickly, like threads in a tapestry. Colin had launched into yet another travel anecdote—something about customs agents in Beijing—while Penelope gently reminded him that he had, in fact, already told this story twice. Hyacinth and Gregory waged war over the plate of biscuits, elbowing each other like unruly schoolchildren.

On the far sofa, Eloise sank down beside Phillip, tugging at his sleeve until he followed her lead. His shoulders loosened for the first time all evening as he reached for his glass.

“Well done,” Eloise pitched her voice just for him. She slipped her hand into his, her thumb tracing an idle pattern across his knuckles.

“I’m a likable person, remember?” he teased. “I won you over, didn’t I?”

Eloise hummed, brows raised. “The only battle I will ever willingly let you claim victory.”

Phillip laughed quietly, and Eloise felt the sound roll through her chest like something she might keep. They like him, she realized, almost against her will. They really do.

Across the rug, Kate stretched her legs and leaned into Anthony’s shoulder. “You were brutal,” she whispered. “Interrogating him like some suitor in Regency London.”

Anthony’s lips curved, unapologetic. “He held his ground.” He tipped his glass toward Phillip, who was listening dutifully to one of Violet’s gentle questions. “I rather respect him for it.”

Kate laughed softly. “Careful, my lord. That sounds dangerously like approval.”

Anthony pressed a kiss to her temple. “Don’t tell her—or him for that matter.”

Daphne sat curled against Simon, August heavy-lidded in her lap, his small hand absently petting Newton’s head. She watched Eloise, her younger sister’s eyes brighter, her smile unguarded in a way Daphne had not seen in years. “She looks happy,” she said quietly. Almost wistfully.

Simon’s hand stroked down her arm. “She does. Which means your mother will fret all the more.”

Daphne sighed, pressing her cheek to August’s hair. But her gaze lingered still, thoughtful, as if trying to reconcile this new Eloise with the sister she had always known.

From across the room, Penelope caught Colin mid-yawn. “You were going to say Tinder, weren’t you?” she teased under her breath.

Colin choked on his brandy. “I—what?”

“Earlier. At dinner. Don’t bother denying it.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps. But Eloise would have throttled me.”

Penelope smiled back, gentle, unassuming—but her eyes studied him too closely, as though she saw more than he would admit.

Nearby, Francesca and John had claimed the loveseat, their posture composed but their conversation muted. John’s hand rested lightly on hers, his thumb tracing idle circles. Francesca smiled when spoken to, but her gaze often strayed to the fire, the flicker reflecting something quieter, more contained.

Phillip caught Penelope’s questioning gaze and willfully excused himself, muttering something about sacrificing himself to the lions. Eloise’s hand squeezed his in silent thanks as he left her with her friend.

“I am glad you came,” Eloise said honestly, looping her arm through Penelope’s as they slipped toward the shadowed edge of the sitting room. “It feels like it has been ages.”

“Well, we’ve both been…” Penelope’s eyes flicked to Phillip across the room, “…busy.”

“Not you too,” Eloise groaned.

“You cannot blame me,” Penelope said, her tone airy but her grip tight as she tugged Eloise toward a quieter alcove. “You’ve never brought a man home before. That sort of thing begs for questions.”

“Perhaps this is precisely why I haven’t brought a man home before,” Eloise muttered, though her lips twitched with amusement.

“Or more likely,” Penelope countered, “you never found anyone worthy of bringing home before. Phillip seems worthy.” She gave Eloise a pointed look. “And that leaves me with questions.”

Eloise arched a brow. “Questions?”

“Questions I’d love answered.”

“Well, that depends. Am I speaking to Penelope Featherington, my oldest friend and greatest confidant—or Penelope Featherington, notorious gossip columnist?”

Penelope raised her hands in mock surrender. “Strictly off the record.”

Eloise hesitated, then sighed, some of the iron in her shoulders melting. “We talked for months before we met. Letters, emails, calls. He…sees me. Not as a Bridgerton, not as someone to argue into submission, but simply as me. Do you have any idea how rare that feels?”

Penelope’s teasing softened into something gentler. Against her better judgement, she let her gaze fall to Colin, for just a moment. “I do,” she admitted. “Or at least, I can imagine.”

“I wasn’t expecting any of it,” Eloise confessed.

“And you trust him?” Penelope asked quietly.

“With more than I should,” Eloise admitted before she could stop herself. The words hung between them, heavier than she intended. Realizing what she’d said, she reached for a biscuit she didn’t want, as though the motion might smother the truth.

Penelope tilted her head, watching her closely. “Then why does it feel as though you’re keeping something from me?”

Eloise’s chin snapped up, defensive. “Because everyone seems to think I’m a puzzle to be solved. Can’t I have something that’s mine alone?”

The words cut sharper than she meant. Guilt flickered in her chest, but Penelope only regarded her quietly, a small crease forming between her brows. At last she nodded, letting the silence stand in place of argument.

“I just…” Penelope hesitated. “I just want to make sure you are happy.”

“I am,” Eloise promised.

“Well, then I am happy for you.”

Eloise exhaled, grateful for the reprieve but unsettled all the same. She had given Penelope just enough—but she could feel her friend’s gaze still pressing, as if she had glimpsed something Eloise had not meant to show. And Penelope, for her part, filed that slip away carefully, the way she did with every secret—knowing it would matter later.

When at last Violet rose, the room stilled by instinct. “Well,” she said, glancing around at the crowded sofas, the half-empty glasses, the child now snoring softly against Daphne’s chest. “I would call this evening a success.”

The family began to scatter, bidding goodnights as they made for the stairs. Eloise lingered only long enough for Violet to press her cheek in farewell before tugging Phillip along.

“See?” she whispered, her hand tight in his. “We made it through. How hard could tomorrow be?”

***

Later that night, in their guest room…

Benedict bent over the small desk, his thumb tracing absently along the edge of a sketchbook. 

“What are you doing?” Sophie asked as she stepped out of the bathroom, her robe tied loose at the waist, toothbrush dangling from her mouth.

“Just looking through this again,” Benedict replied, bent over the small desk in the corner. His voice was casual, though his thumb traced absently along the edge of a sketchbook propped open in front of him.

Sophie ducked back into the bathroom to rinse, then padded barefoot across the rug. She lowered her chin to rest atop his dark curls, arms slipping easily around his chest, fingers toying with the buttons of his pajamas. “You were quiet tonight.”

“Just tired,” he said. Not untrue—but not the whole truth either.

Her gaze flicked toward the sketchbook. She knew what was tucked just inside the cover: the acceptance letter, its edges already worn from his handling. “You didn’t tell anyone.”

“I… couldn’t find the right moment.”

Sophie tilted her head, her lips brushing his temple. “You create moments, Benedict. With your art, your drawings. And you couldn’t find one to tell your family?”

The corner of his mouth curved at the compliment, but he twisted in his chair, catching her by the waist to pull her into his lap. “It was a long day,” he murmured, tugging at the tie of her robe. “And everyone was far too busy interrogating Phillip to notice something as trivial as this.” He nodded at the letter.

Sophie gave him a pointed look, cupping his face in her hands. The faint scratch of stubble met her palms. “You should tell them.”

He stilled, his eyes locking with hers. “I will,” he promised quietly. “Eventually.” Then, with a grin tugging at the edges of his seriousness: “In the meantime, we could create our own moment.”

Her laugh bubbled out, soft but sure, before she let him guide her toward the bed.

***

Across the hall, Colin pushed open the door to Penelope’s guest room. “There you are,” he said. “Same one as last year.”

“And the year before that,” Penelope remembered.

“How many Bridgerton Christmas gatherings have you attended now?”

Penelope thought a moment. “I’ve lost count—and stopped protesting somewhere along the way. When Violet threatened to drag me out of University in the boot of her car, I decided it was easier to accept the invitation.”

“You’re not intruding,” Colin reassured her. “In fact, you’ve gotten rather good at keeping me from putting my foot in my mouth.”

“Yes, well, someone has to. Otherwise, I’ll be bailing Eloise out of jail.”

Colin laughed, leaning against the doorframe. For a moment, the sound between them softened into something quieter. He wanted to say more—to ask if she felt lost in the chaos of his family. The words sat on the tip of his tongue, heavy, unsaid. Instead, he straightened, defaulting to his easy smile. “Well. You’re settled. Sleep well, Pen.”

Her chest tightened at the nickname, the way it always did. “Goodnight, Colin.”

He lingered a fraction too long in the doorway before closing it. On opposite sides of the same door, both stood still, listening to the silence stretch, neither knowing the other was doing the very same.

***

Francesca closed her door with a soft click, the muffled laughter of her family dimming behind it. John tugged his sweater over his head, watching her with that steady gaze she had come to rely on.

“You were quiet tonight,” he said gently.

“I’m always quiet.”

He tipped her chin up with two fingers. “I don’t mind it. It gives me more time to watch you.”

Her lips curved despite herself, but when he kissed her temple and turned back to unpack, the smile slipped. Among Benedict’s jokes, Hyacinth’s chatter, Violet’s easy command, Francesca had found herself fading again—her voice a whisper drowned beneath the noise.

She slid into bed, blanket pulled high. John’s presence beside her was a comfort, steady and sure. Yet still she wondered where her place truly fit in the whirlwind world of Bridgertons.

***

And in Violet’s room…

Violet sat at her vanity, brush gliding through her hair in slow, familiar strokes. The simple ritual grounded her, as it always had, though tonight her thoughts wandered restlessly. Down the hall she could just make out the muffled echoes of laughter, a door shutting, a hurried whisper not meant for her ears.

The house had finally gone still. Or nearly so.

There was a deep contentment in knowing all her children—her grown, busy, scattered children—were under one roof again. For tonight, at least, the world felt whole.

Her phone buzzed against the polished wood. One new message.
Marcus: Hope you’re enjoying your time with family. Looking forward to seeing you Sunday.

Her hand hovered. Try as she might, Violet could not stop the smile that curved her mouth, nor the quickened beat of her heart. The reflection of the screen glowed faintly in the mirror as she typed her reply.
I can’t wait.

Setting the phone facedown, she exhaled softly, as though the secret joy might spill into the room if she wasn’t careful.

“One more day,” she whispered—not in impatience, but in gratitude. One more day of this house full of laughter. One more day before her worlds touched and shifted again.

The lamp clicked off, plunging the room into shadow, and still her smile lingered in the dark.

Chapter Text

The parlor looked as though a ribbon factory had exploded. Wrapping paper crinkled underfoot, Newton pranced with a bow in his mouth like he’d won a grand prize, and August shrieked with delight every time someone opened a box.

“Not that one, Auggie,” Daphne groaned, intercepting a half-unwrapped package from her son’s determined grip.

Simon only chuckled from the sofa, his coffee mug balanced precariously on his knee. “You might as well let him. He’s unwrapping faster than the rest of us combined.”

“Best for last,” Anthony promised, holding out a neatly wrapped box to the small boy. 

“I’ll open it!” Auggie crowed. Paper flew over his shoulders—some landing on Newton, who barked at the new distraction.

The boy lifted the lid and gasped at the small treasure chest with its brass latch. “My very own treasure!”

“That’s right,” Kate praised warmly. “A place for all your treasures.”

Daphne sighed, half-fond, half-wary. “He’s taken to collecting the oddest things—spoons, socks, a roll of tape from my desk. Heaven help us if this ends up filled with contraband.”

“Thank you!” Auggie hugged the chest and darted away in search of new loot.

“Thank you,” Daphne echoed, her voice softer now. “That was thoughtful.”

“Well, I can’t take the credit,” Anthony admitted.

Before anyone could press further, Newton barked triumphantly and snatched a small gift from under the tree.

“Newton!” Violet’s voice held exasperation, though her smile glowed. “Anthony, do control your dog.”

“He is not my dog,” Anthony protested, already giving chase.

“We were a package deal,” Kate reminded him brightly.

Penelope snapped a picture just as Newton dodged Anthony again.

“Pulitzer Prize worthy, no doubt,” Colin teased.

“I’ll title it A Man Distressed.”

Newton barreled through the gap between Colin’s legs, sending him lurching upright.

“You could have stopped him,” Anthony grumbled.

“Ah, but I chose not to,” Colin said, grinning.

Penelope laughed and snapped another shot—this one of Colin himself.

“And what was that for?” he asked, still smiling.

Because I love your smile, Penelope thought. Instead she said lightly, “A nice contrast to Anthony’s anguish.”

Violet cleared her throat, drawing the room’s attention as she passed out her final pile of gifts.

Eloise leaned close to Phillip, her voice conspiratorial. “It’s going to be a scarf. She always does scarves. Just act surprised.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Phillip said, his hand resting on hers. “All of you here together. Having a mother who cares so much. Next year—”

He stopped himself, though no one else was listening.

Eloise’s breath caught. She squeezed his hand, finishing the thought silently: Next year, the family will know.

The twins would be here. And they would be together.

“I know,” she whispered, another squeeze sealing the promise.

Violet’s last bundle of neatly wrapped scarves earned groans of mock-exasperation.

“You knew it would be a scarf,” Eloise muttered to Phillip, who dutifully held his up as though it were spun gold.

“I did,” he whispered back, “but I also think it’s wonderful.”

Violet’s eyes shone brighter than the firelight as her children teased, admired, and—at least in Colin’s case—flourished their scarves like stage costumes. She let the noise crest before raising her hand.

“And one last thing.” From beneath her chair, she drew a second stack of packages bound in deep red ribbon. “For each of you.”

The chatter ebbed to a hush.

Francesca untied her ribbon first, a smile breaking over her face at the photograph on the opening page: herself at two years old, perched precariously on the piano bench, tiny hands sprawled across the keys. “I look like I’m about to topple over.”

“You did,” Violet said warmly. “But you refused to come down until you’d played your ‘song.’”

John chuckled, kissing her temple. “So it was destiny.”

Benedict flipped open his album, laughter spilling from him at a childish sketch taped to one page. “My first masterpiece,” he declared, holding up the crude outline of what might have been a horse. Sophie leaned in, charmed.

Colin’s album revealed sun-creased photos of a boy already restless for adventure, backpack slung proudly. “Oh no,” he groaned as Hyacinth cackled at his crooked haircut in one picture. “How could you let me walk about like that?”

“You were quite proud of that haircut,” Violet reminded him serenely.

Daphne’s album yielded a photo of a much younger Violet with four toddlers piled on her lap—Anthony, Benedict, Colin, and herself. The smile on their mother’s face glowed with unguarded joy.

“How in the world did you manage all of us?” Daphne asked, the question heavier than she meant.

“Coffee, dear,” Violet teased. “And pure determination.”

Anthony had opened his last. For a moment he said nothing, his thumb brushing the edge of a photo: himself at ten, standing tall beside his father, cricket bat in hand, Edmund’s smile broad and proud.

The room’s noise dimmed. Kate shifted closer, her hand brushing against Anthony’s knee—quiet support he hadn’t realized he needed. She glimpsed the boyish grin in the photograph and caught the ache in Anthony’s profile, wondering whose smile their child would one day carry.

“This is…” Anthony cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “Thank you, Mother.”

Violet inclined her head, her own eyes bright. “It seemed time to pass a few things along.”

The albums moved from hand to hand, laughter sparking at embarrassing hairstyles, missing teeth, long-forgotten moments. Beneath the merriment lingered something gentler: the tether of memory, the reminder not only of where they had been, but of who they had become.

Kate felt Anthony’s hand slip into hers, steady but tense. He was smiling, yes—but it was the smile of a man half-lost to the past, even as the present pressed warmly around him.

Chapter Text

The chaos of wrapping paper had finally subsided, leaving the parlor littered with ribbons and empty boxes. August grabbed Violet by the hand and set off in pursuit of some hidden adventure he knew his parents would decline, but his grandmother would indulge. Newton bounded eagerly at their heels, tail wagging like a banner of triumph.

The photo albums lay open, sprawled across the floor and end tables, passerbys occasionally pausing to flip a page or point out some long-forgotten moment.  The air still hummed with that quiet weight of memory—Edmund’s smile, ridiculous out-of-style outfits, the reminder of years gone by.  But as the chatter rose again, it carried the sharp edge of amusement, a family instinctively turning sentiment back into laughter.

The men had migrated toward the decanters, but the Bridgerton women lingered near the fire, teacups in hand, their energy not yet spent. 

It was Kate who pounced first, leaning forward with an all-too-innocent smile.  “So,” she said sweetly, “how did you really meet him?”

“Who?” Eloise asked, though the defensive edge in her tone gave her away.

“Don’t play coy,” Daphne said, exchanging a knowing glance with Kate. “Phillip. You were dreadfully vague last night, which only makes me think you were hiding something.”

“Not hiding,” Eloise corrected, sitting up straighter. “Editing.”

“Editing?” Francesca repeated, one brow arched. “Since when do life stories require revisions?”

Sophie hid her grin behind her teacup. “Since Eloise decided to keep her mother guessing, apparently.”

“Violet Bridgerton rarely needs to know the whole truth,” Eloise defended herself as she took a sip of tea.  

“But she usually discovers it anyway,” Penelope added knowingly.  

“You really just slid into his DM’s?” Hyacinth asked, which sent the group into a fit of giggles.  

“His academic DM’s perhaps,” Eloise clarified.  

“How long ago was this?” Kate asked, her arched brow telling Eloise to be careful, her crafty sister-in-law would be looking for inconsistencies.  

“Last year,” Eloise decided to be honest.  

“How long have you been dating?” Sophie asked, trying to hide the disbelief from her voice but failing to do so.  

“It’s complicated,” Eloise shrugged, hoping that that would be the end of the conversation. 

“Uncomplicate it,” Kate offered. 

Penelope looked thoughtfully at Eloise.  “How long did you write before you met?”

“Six months...or so,” she mumbled. 

“You went full You’ve Got Mail,” Hyacinth muttered.

“You emailed back and forth for half a year?”

“It started as email, but then we texted, called each other.  But we were in different cities, each with full time jobs we couldn’t give up.” 

“So you texted, called, emailed…” Daphne tilted her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. “And never thought to mention this mysterious botanist?”

“I mentioned him,” Eloise said primly, though her ears burned.

“A month ago in the group chat when Mother demanded a headcount for this weekend,” Francesca argued.

“I was busy.” 

“I’m sure you were,” Kate gave her a knowing look.

Daphne leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “Tell me, Eloise—at what point did he stop being a pen pal and start being…well, something else?”

The pause Eloise left was a fraction too long. Kate caught it instantly.
“Ah,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “There it is.”

Eloise shot her a look. “There what is?”

“The moment,” Francesca supplied, her tone dry but curious. “There’s always a moment.”

“What moment?” Hyacinth asked before Eloise could. 

“The moment you realize that it’s more than just text messages back and forth,” Sophie added pointedly.  

“The moment you realize it’s real,” Francesca added. 

Eloise scoffed, reaching for a biscuit she didn’t even want. “If you’re asking if a thunderclap struck me from the heavens and offered romantic insight, then you’ll be disappointed.” 

“It’s not always a thunderclap,” Penelope added, and then looked as though she wished she could grab the words hanging thickly in the air and pull them back into her mouth.  

“How do you know?” Eloise asked with a raised brow.  “Did your date with Al Debling go better than you let on?”

“No,” Penelope laughed and shook her head.  “I just, it’s just something I’ve been pondering lately.  For the column.” 

“It was for Anthony and I,” Kate said nonchalantly.  “A thunderclap that is.  Mostly in the form of the two of us butting heads, but a thunderclap nonetheless.” 

“Sometimes it’s a moment,” Francesca said, leaning forward and placing a hand on Eloise’s knee.  “Like a key change hidden so delicately in a piece that you only realize it’s happened a few stanzas later when the music shifts and you’re left with something completely different.” 

“For Benedict and I…” Sophie started, “It was electric.  Like we could feel the shift about to happen before we ever met.” 

“Like the moment a fire ignites,” Daphne added.

“Well, it wasn’t like that for us,” Eloise said, glancing across the room at Phillip even though his back was turned to her.  “It was a…a quiet sort of inevitability, I suppose.” 

Hyacinth grinned. “So you are in love.”

Eloise nearly choked on her biscuit.  “I did not say that.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Sophie said gently, eyes warm as she set her teacup down. “It’s written all over your face.”

“Is it?” Eloise turned, appealing to Penelope for rescue. But Penelope only shrugged, her smile fond and a little too knowing.

“It is,” Kate replied.  “So if that’s your secret, you’re going to need to try a little harder to conceal it.” 

“You can go ahead and tell Phillip he’s doing an abysmal job at it as well,” Daphne added. 

“We aren’t trying to hide it,” Eloise shrugged, allowing herself to own at least part of their secret.  “We’re in love.  Madly if you must know.” 

“Then what are you hiding?” Fran asked. 

The room stilled for half a breath. Eloise laughed a fraction too brightly, shaking her head. “Who says I’m hiding anything?”

“Hmm.” Kate hummed knowingly. “Just a suspicion.”

“Marriage has made you four,” Eloise gestured to Kate, Daphne, Sophie, and Francesca, “paranoid.”

“Perhaps,” Sophie agreed. “Or maybe just wise.”

Kate set down her teacup with a decisive little clink. “Wise or paranoid, it makes no difference. Secrets don’t tend to stay secret for long in this family.”

Her smile lingered, but as Penelope’s eyes caught hers across the circle—steady, searching—Eloise felt the faintest twist in her stomach.

***

On the far side of the sitting room, the men had drifted toward the hearth, drinks in hand. The air smelled faintly of smoke and brandy, their laughter rising in uneven bursts that contrasted with the softer murmur of the women across the way.

“Do you think they’re talking about us?” Colin asked finally, glancing over his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time.

“Undoubtedly,” Benedict replied, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “I’m sure it’s only flattering in nature.”

“Or incriminating,” Simon countered. “Likely a mixture.”

Anthony huffed a laugh, though his gaze lingered a moment longer on Phillip before turning back to his drink. “Incriminating or not, I daresay they’re getting the better end of the conversation.”

“That’s because you’re afraid of what they’ll dig up,” John teased. “Women always ask the better questions.”

“Better? More ruthless, perhaps,” Colin said. “They’ve been interrogating poor Eloise all weekend. If she hasn’t fled the premises by tomorrow, I’ll be impressed.”

Phillip’s lips curved faintly at that, though he didn’t add to the chorus.

Anthony caught it. He leaned back in his chair, voice deceptively casual. “It does make me wonder, though—what your intentions with Eloise are.”

Phillip blinked. “My intentions?”

“She won’t marry you,” Anthony said simply, as if pronouncing the weather.

The statement didn’t come as a shock to Phillip, Eloise had blatantly told him such, multiple times, in their early days of correspondence.  

Colin barked a laugh. “He’s right. It’s all we’ve heard since she could speak—marriage is a prison, a dreadful contract designed to rob women of their freedom.”

Again—Phillip had heard her arguments before as well.  And Eloise had warned him that her brothers would likely use them against her, just one reason why it would be the smarter route to let her family meet Phillip before pulling the rug out from under them and announcing that Eloise Bridgerton, who had spent the better part of her life adamantly opposed to marriage, was now, in fact, very happily married. 

Phillip’s smile was small, but steady. “I won’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to.”

Anthony’s brow rose. “And you’re content with that?”

“Sometimes,” Phillip clarified, “it’s enough to just remain in someone’s orbit.  Eloise is worth sticking around for, even if she doesn’t want to put a label on our relationship.”

“Orbit?” Benedict frowned. “That makes her sound like a planet.”

“Eloise would certainly be Neptune,” Gregory quipped.

“I’m not sure,” Colin mused. “Which one is the loudest?”

Their laughter rippled, but Anthony’s gaze stayed fixed on Phillip.

Then he chuckled, low and smug. “If Eloise marries you, I’ll give you a thousand pounds.”

Gregory nearly choked on his drink. “You’re wagering on your own sister’s marriage?”

“Consider it an act of charity,” Anthony replied smoothly. “No man alive has ever succeeded in convincing Eloise Bridgerton to do something she didn’t already plan to do herself.”

Phillip’s lips twitched.  “Should we put that in writing?”

“No need,” Anthony waved him off, grinning. “Benedict can act as my witness.”

“Gladly,” Benedict said with mock solemnity, lifting his glass in toast.

“Deal,” Phillip replied, his tone light. But the flicker in his eyes suggested a man who knew more than he let on.

“And what is going on over here?” Daphne’s voice carried across the room as she slipped to Simon’s side, her hand sliding easily into the crook of his arm. 

“We could ask you the same,” John countered, as Francesca perched gracefully on the arm of his chair. 

“Anthony is giving away your money,” Colin announced with far too much relish. 

Kate joined them just in time to pluck the glass from her husband’s hand.  “Ah, well then—you’ve clearly had enough of this.” 

Anthony looked up at her, affronted.  “That was perfectly good scotch.” 

“And you were on the verge of wagering away the family fortune,” Kate returned sweetly. 

“It’s not much of a wager if it’s a safe bet,” he mumbled, but didn’t dare repeat himself when Kate’s raised brow shot in his direction. 

The group’s laughter rose, lightening the air again, and splintered conversations began anew—sisters tugging their husbands aside, new clusters forming, the fire crackling on in the background.  No one even noticed Sophie grab Benedict by the hand and lead him out of the room.

Chapter Text

Benedict let himself be tugged down the corridor, grinning like a schoolboy caught sneaking sweets.
“Well, well, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he murmured, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Whisking me away, and in the middle of a family gathering no less. How very scandalous of you.”

Sophie shot him a look over her shoulder but didn’t let go of his hand.
“If you’re imagining I dragged you out here for anything that would require the removal of clothing, then you’ll be disappointed.”

“I think you’ll find I can manage quite a lot with all articles securely in place,” he replied, his free hand already working at the claw clip that held Sophie’s hair.

“You’re pushing your luck, Ben.”

“What’s the point of having luck if one is unwilling to use it?”

She stopped in the alcove just beyond the sitting room and faced him fully, her expression sharp enough to cut through his playfulness.
“Benedict, I’m serious.”

That sobered him, though his hands stayed firm on her waist, his thumbs brushing idly at the hem of her shirt.
“What is it?”

Sophie hesitated, worrying her lip before speaking.
“It’s Eloise. Something’s not adding up. She’s giving us…pieces, but not the whole story.”

Benedict tilted his head. “That’s hardly cause for concern. Eloise never gives the whole story. She thrives on being infuriatingly evasive.”

“Yes,” Sophie agreed, quiet but insistent. “But this feels different. As if she’s protecting something. Or someone.”

Benedict frowned, the pieces settling uneasily. He thought back to Phillip’s careful answers, to Eloise’s sharp deflections at dinner. And Sophie’s instincts—even about his family—were rarely wrong.

“You noticed it too,” she pressed, her hands resting on his chest.

He exhaled, running a paint-stained hand through his hair. “I noticed…something. But Eloise has never brought a boyfriend home before. I don’t know what’s normal here.”

“She said she loves him.”

Benedict’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “She admitted it freely—or was Kate threatening her at gunpoint?”

“Freely,” Sophie confirmed.

Benedict sorted through his options. “I like Phillip. He stands his ground against Anthony, and he seems to care for El.”

“I like him too. And Eloise is clearly happy.”

“Happier than I’ve seen her since Colin shaved his head on a lost bet,” Benedict mused. “So can’t we just…ignore it? Or at least ignore it until after the holidays?”

Sophie’s look was half exasperation, half fondness.
“You can ignore it if you like, but secrets don’t stay buried long in this family.” She knew what she’d seen in Eloise’s eyes. “Maybe a conversation with her brother—with her favorite brother—would help her feel more comfortable.”

Benedict leaned down, brushed his lips against her temple, his grin creeping back.
“Remind me never to try hiding anything from you.”

“You could never,” Sophie smiled as she started back toward the sitting room. “You’re a terrible liar.”

But Benedict tugged her hand, grin returned in full.
“We’ve been gone a full five minutes and not a single search party has been sent out yet.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That we push our luck. Just a little further.”

Sophie let herself be drawn after him, laughter bubbling—but unease lingered at her chest. Benedict might be willing to ignore Eloise’s secrets until after the holiday. Sophie knew better. Secrets in this family never stayed quiet for long.

***

The chaos of the morning had finally subsided into that foggy haze that follows large gatherings. The family had enjoyed lunch together at Violet’s insistence, and then naturally scattered—some to rest, some to catch up on work, others simply to savor a moment of quiet.

Kate was grateful for the excuse to lie down. The persistent hint of nausea eased when she stayed still.

The door creaked open. She didn’t need to look to know who it was; she could feel Anthony’s concern before he even spoke.

“I’m fine,” she said, eyes still closed, pillow hugged to her chest.

“You were looking a little green,” he replied.

“Well, that’s because your child dislikes everything I try to feed it.”

Anthony sat carefully at the edge of the bed, a tray balanced in his hands and Violet’s gifted photo album tucked under his arm.
“I brought you ginger tea, just in case.”

Kate cracked one eye and saw him—perched there with his tray like a sentry. Despite herself, her lips curved.
“You are relentless, you know that?”

“I prefer thorough,” Anthony countered, setting the tray aside.

“Are you going to start fussing about the weather next?  I heard they’re predicting snow.” 

“They’re always predicting snow,” Anthony countered, “And they’re always wrong.  I wanted to show you something.” 

He placed the photo album between them and flipped the book open with unusual care, revealing glossy prints of another lifetime. “See? Proof that I was once a helpless infant who survived on nothing but milk. You will too.”

Kate laughed, fingers brushing the photo of a solemn toddler with curls and dark eyes.
“This is you?”

“Did you think I was born in a suit and tie?”

Her thumb traced the picture. Something fierce and aching stirred in her chest. “It’s strange to think…soon we’ll have one of our own.”

The words hung there, sweet and terrifying. Anthony’s smile faltered, his hand threading with hers too tightly.
“Yes,” he said finally, voice taut. “Which is why you must be careful. Rest. Eat. No risks, Kate. None.”

She studied him, her thumb brushing his knuckles. “I don’t do well with orders, Anthony, you know that.  I am pregnant, not made of glass.”

“That remains to be seen,” he muttered, before covering the edge in his tone with a kiss to her temple. “I just…I cannot lose you. Either of you.”

Kate held him close, the album sprawled across their laps like a silent witness to past and future. “Then trust me. Trust that I’m stronger than you think. And that this baby is too.”

He breathed her in, still wound tight. Until she tilted her head up, lips brushing his jaw.
“Let’s hope the baby inherits my ears.”

Anthony startled into laughter. “I grew into them eventually.”

Kate flipped a few pages. “When, exactly?”

He shut the book and drew her against him, her laughter wrapping around him like a shield. For the moment, it was enough.

***

A small group gathered in the study, full from lunch but unwilling to give in to afternoon naps.

Colin wedged himself beside Penelope, laptop balanced on his knee. Their elbows brushed with every shift, neither making space.

Penelope glanced sideways, noting the crease in his brow, the way he chewed absently at his thumbnail.
“What are you working on?”

“Just travel notes for my next video.”

“That was oddly vague.”

He finally looked at her, half amused, half cautious.
“You genuinely like to hear my travel stories?”

“Of course I do,” she said softly, closing her book.

His mouth curved, almost disbelieving. “Most people tell me I ramble.”

“Oh, you do,” she teased gently. “But it’s the charming kind. The kind that happens when someone is passionate.”

Their knees brushed, the word lingering in the air. The quiet of the study folded around them—until Francesca’s voice broke through.

“Has anyone seen Mother?”

“She was fetching biscuits,” Penelope said.

“So if you want any before Colin gets to them, intercept her,” Eloise added without looking up.

“I think I will,” Francesca murmured. She shot John a quick look, his small nod bolstering her.

But as she slipped into the hall, her chest tightened. It wasn’t only biscuits she was after. She had promised John she’d tell her mother today—about Scotland, about everything.

Her steps slowed when Violet’s voice drifted from the drawing room.
“Yes…I agree with the weather turning, it would be better if you left now and arrived tonight.”

Francesca froze.

Her mother’s tone—usually so measured—carried urgency. Almost furtive.

“…Yes, tonight would be best,” Violet repeated, quieter now. “Everything will work out.”

Fran’s pulse quickened. Her promise to John pressed heavy in her chest. But Violet’s secret words had lodged there first, sharp and unsettling.

Chapter Text

The wind had not let up. Snow still pelted against the windows as they filed from the dining room to the sitting room, their footsteps muffled on the thick rugs. Someone—likely Gregory—had already stoked the fire, and the flames leapt in eager bursts, throwing a warm glow across polished wood and slightly-faded upholstery. The air smelled faintly of pine and mulled wine, a cocoon against the shrieking wind outside.

The clamor of dinner dulled into something gentler now: the clink of cups on saucers, the rustle of a blanket claimed from the back of the sofa, the comfortable hum of voices dipping in and out of laughter.

Violet settled herself into her tall-backed armchair, her gaze sweeping across the room, drinking in the sight of her children scattered like a patchwork quilt. For a moment, it almost felt as though nothing at all had changed.

August waddled over, his treasure chest clutched in one hand, the other straining under the weight of a picture book. “Read it, please?” he asked, climbing into her lap as though he’d always belonged there.

Violet’s heart softened. “Of course.” She propped the book open across their knees and began, her voice a steady thread weaving through the crackle of the fire.

Across the room, Sophie’s gaze caught on Benedict’s hands—stained faintly with lead. “You were sketching this afternoon?” she asked gently.

“Just doodling,” Benedict said, too quickly.

“Your sketches are hardly ever just doodles.”

He only shrugged, unwilling to argue, though the thumb he brushed along her knuckles left a faint charcoal smudge.

On the opposite sofa, Colin lounged with his ankles crossed, one arm stretched lazily along the cushions. Penelope sat at the other end, her phone balanced in her lap.

“You’re not going to post that one, are you?” Colin leaned forward, catching sight of himself mid-laugh.  

Penelope tilted the screen away. “Why?” she asked self-consciously. 

“I look…ridiculous,” he said, eyeing the photograph.  “I’m not even looking at the camera.” 

“It’s not about you,” Penelope said softly.  “It’s about…everyone together. The way it feels.”  

Colin blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “You always see things differently.”  

“Differently?”  

“Better,” he admitted, too quickly. His throat worked. “Like you notice what the rest of us miss.”  

Penelope’s lips curved, but she ducked her head, scrolling to hide the warmth in her eyes.  

Violet looked up from the book, her gaze flicking between them. Something was there—something new, or perhaps only newly visible—but she could not quite put her finger on it.

August yawned wide enough to snap his jaw. He wriggled free of Violet’s lap and toddled straight for the abandoned plate of biscuits. Carefully, he placed one inside his treasure chest and Violet rose to fetch more from the kitchen. 

“August,” Simon warned. “You can’t put food in your chest.”

“It’s treasures!” August declared.

“It will get your chest dirty,” Simon countered.

The toddler gave a pout but tucked one more biscuit inside before wandering over to Anthony and Kate, climbing into their laps with the boneless trust of a child. Newton was shoved at Anthony, while August burrowed into Kate’s arms.

Anthony hummed against his wife’s temple, his shoulders visibly loosening for the first time that day. “This is nice.”

“It is,” Kate murmured, brushing back August’s curls as though he were her own child.

From the piano came a hesitant chord. “Sorry,” Francesca muttered. She tried again, her fingers searching.

“You’re beautiful even when you frown,” John whispered behind her, low enough for only her.

Her lips curved despite herself. She did not look away from the keys.

Gregory chuckled. “Do you remember when Colin tried to play that very piece one Christmas?”

Hyacinth leaned forward, eyes alight. “I remember Mother nearly threatening to toss the piano into the snow.”

Colin groaned. “Not my proudest moment.” But when his eyes flicked sideways to Penelope, she was already smiling at him.

“Nearly?” Violet interjected, returning with a fresh platter of desserts.  “The chords still haunt me.” 

The swell of conversation rose again, and Penelope angled her phone discreetly to capture Colin’s laughter.

“Now,” Violet said, reclaiming her seat. She set the biscuits down and smoothed her skirt. “Since we won’t all be together again for New Year’s, I think we should make our predictions tonight.”

“Predictions?” Daphne asked, glancing at Simon.

“About what exactly?” Simon added.

“About life, dear,” Violet said with a quirk of her lips. “What you think the next year will bring.”

“Oh, easy,” Gregory declared. “I predict Benedict will take up goat herding. Or pottery. Whichever new hobby comes first.”

“Pottery would at least be useful,” Benedict muttered, earning Sophie’s soft laugh.

Hyacinth smirked. “I predict Colin will finally run out of countries to run away to.”

“That would be a shame,” Penelope said before Colin could reply. “The world would miss out on his stories.”

The words hung, unexpected. Colin turned to her, startled by the warmth in her eyes. For once, he had no jest to throw back.

“Well,” Violet said quietly, “I predict we may all be in for a few surprises.” Her gaze lingered just a shade too long on several of her children in turn.

“I think if life has taught us anything it’s that it’s unpredictable,” Eloise said quickly. “Who’s to say what changes the next year will bring?”

“Very true, my dear. Though unpredictability rarely arrives unannounced.” Violet’s tone was deceptively light. “It leaves hints, if one cares to look. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Eloise straightened too quickly, bracing for impact. Her hands twitched as if to fidget with something that wasn’t there—an invisible ring. “I—suppose so. Though sometimes things simply…happen.”

Phillip shifted in his chair, careful not to draw attention, though his gaze found hers for a fleeting, dangerous moment.

“Mm.” Violet sipped her tea delicately. “Sometimes the best things.” Her eyes slid to Anthony and Kate, who seemed perfectly content beneath the weight of August’s small body.

“I’m not sure we can take much more unpredictability,” Simon said lightly. “August provides enough of that on his own.”

The room laughed, but Daphne went still, too still. Simon didn’t know. He couldn’t. Her hand pressed absently against her middle before shifting back to her glass of water.

“I’d like to predict the company will be in equally good standing this time next year,” Anthony said, clearing his throat.

“Yes,” Violet agreed smoothly. “And if there were an opportunity for expansion…”

“Well, I would not be opposed,” Anthony said, his eyes flicking almost unconsciously to Kate’s stomach. “But only if the timing was right. Unless, of course, Benedict is finally willing to come onboard.”

Benedict raised his glass. “I’m not sure office life would suit me,” he replied, worried the family might see the secret scrawled across his forehead. “But perhaps, I will think on it.”

Silence lingered a moment too long—enough for Anthony’s shrug to feel dismissive.

“The offer is always on the table,” Anthony said.

“You do have other brothers—” Gregory began.

“You,” Eloise cut in, “are still an infant.”

Their bickering overlapped, but Sophie leaned closer. “You should tell them. About the letter. About the—”

“Not now,” Benedict cut her off, sharper than he intended. His hand tightened around hers, thumb stroking as if in apology. His eyes, though, were restless.

Sophie arched her brow. “Too busy considering Anthony’s offer?”

He winced. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Her smile was easy, but her voice held weight. “Perhaps it would be better if the truth came out.”

Benedict’s gaze swept the room—their laughter, their ease, the sense of order they carried like a birthright—and thought of his paints, his letters, the dream he was not yet brave enough to voice. Not tonight. “Not yet,” he said quietly.

John slipped his arm further around Francesca’s shoulders. “What about you? What do you hope for this next year?”

She tilted her head against him, her fingers never leaving the keys. “I just hope whatever happens, it’s quiet enough to hear the music.”

“A beautiful sentiment,” Violet said. Her gaze drifted to Colin. “And you? What changes do you hope for?”

Colin hesitated only a beat. “I’ve been thinking of settling down.”

Anthony nearly choked on his drink. “Settling down? As in marrying?”

“No, brother. As in staying put. Taking a break from traveling. If a relationship came from that, I wouldn’t complain, but…I think I’d like to try writing.”

“Writing?” Gregory blurted at the same moment as Penelope. But while Gregory’s voice carried disbelief, Penelope’s was curious.

“I think that’s a magnificent idea,” she said quickly.

Francesca smirked. “And what about you, Mother? You’ve gotten answers from all of us while dodging the question yourself.”

“Me?” Violet echoed.

“What do you hope for next year?”

Violet traced the rim of her teacup, her gaze soft. “I suppose…I hope I am wise enough to welcome whatever change may come.”

The room quieted, the house groaning against the storm.

“We’d better turn in,” Daphne said at last, her hand finding Simon’s knee. “We have an early flight tomorrow.”

“As long as the weather holds, we’ll be fine,” Simon added as he rose, steadying August as the boy slid reluctantly from Kate’s lap. “Come along, Auggie.”

“G’night,” August mumbled, half yawn, half grin, as he made his way around the room, wrapping his relatives in sticky, jam-scented hugs.

“Goodnight,” the room echoed, laughter rumbling as Gregory nearly toppled backward from the force of the boy’s embrace.

“Um—we’d better turn in too,” Eloise said suddenly, too quickly. She looked to Phillip, her tone just a shade too bright.

“Yes,” Phillip agreed, tucking the book he’d been pretending to read under his arm. “Early train. If it’s on time, that is.”

“Bold prediction,” Benedict muttered, earning Sophie’s quiet laugh.

Eloise lingered a beat, almost as though she wanted to add something more—an explanation, perhaps—but instead she bent to kiss her mother’s cheek and swept from the room with Phillip at her side.

The fire crackled. The walls groaned with the storm’s insistence. And in the space they left behind, the room felt suddenly both too large and too close.

Chapter Text

Upstairs, in the far east guest room, Eloise sat at the vanity smoothing moisturizer across her face while the wind rattled against the old windowpanes. The house seemed to creak and settle around them, muffled now that the laughter of her family was two floors below. The Facetime call with the twins still lingered in her mind—the messy recounting of adventures with Phillip’s mother, sticky fingers pressed too close to the camera, their voices tumbling over one another until the connection stuttered and froze. Even brief and broken, it had been enough. Grounding. A reminder of what really mattered.

“You look deep in thought,” Phillip murmured as he came up behind her. The heat of his body was still clinging from the shower, steam following him as he bent to press a kiss at the nape of her neck.

“I was thinking about the twins,” Eloise admitted, eyes softening at her reflection. “I miss them.”

“I miss them too.” He smiled, tugging a towel tighter around his waist before reaching for another to rub briskly through his hair. Drops of water trailed down the hard line of his shoulders.

For a moment, Eloise nearly asked if he thought her mother suspected—if Violet’s oddly pointed predictions earlier had been more than coincidence. But she bit the words back, shaking her head. Paranoid. She was being paranoid. They had been careful, meticulous even. Their plan was foolproof.

“If you were about to ask if I think these towels are incredible, then yes,” Phillip said instead, holding one aloft with a grin.

Eloise arched a brow. “The towels?”

“So plush.” He reached for another, draping it over his head like a monk’s cowl.

She laughed, the tension in her chest easing a fraction. “I didn’t know you were so invested in towels.”

“In these towels, I am.” He tugged it away, shaking his damp hair.

“I’m sure if you told Mother, she’d have a truckload delivered to the house before we even returned,” Eloise teased. “She likes you.”

Phillip stilled, his expression softening. “You sound as if you were worried she wouldn’t.”

“Not worried,” Eloise corrected quickly, though her throat tightened as the words left her. “It was simply…important to me that she did.”

He crouched then, dropping the towel and taking her hands so they were eye-level in the mirror. His gaze held hers, steady and searching. “We could tell her the truth,” he said evenly.  

Eloise huffed out a laugh. “You don’t understand. Violet Bridgerton lies in wait for a wedding. When Ben and Sophie announced their engagement, she produced binders. Binders, Phillip. Color-coded. Cross-referenced. Venues already scouted and deposits made. She’s probably drafting ours as we speak.”

“Then shouldn’t we save her the trouble?”

Her lips tugged between a smile and a frown. She bit down on them, wavering between the comfort of honesty and the fear of detonating the delicate equilibrium she’d managed this weekend. The truth would ripple through the Bridgertons like an earthquake—felt in every corner, impossible to contain.

“No,” she said at last, shaking her head. “We stick to the plan. This weekend was about meeting you. In a few weeks, I’ll casually mention the twins. And then…”

Phillip’s mouth quirked. “Then you’ll tell her you fell madly in love, whisked me to the registry office on a Monday in September, and became Mrs. Eloise Crane?”

“Mrs. Eloise Bridgerton-Crane.”

“You have never made a hyphen sound so incredibly sexy.”

“I can make a lot of things sound sexy.”

“Oh, I am aware.”

Eloise leaned in then, pressing her mouth to his, her voice soft against his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he answered without hesitation.

Her grin turned mischievous, eyes glinting with challenge. “Do you know what’s even better than the towels?”

Phillip tilted his head. “Enlighten me.”

“The sheets.”

His answering laugh was low, knowing. “Then I suppose we’d better test that theory.”

Eloise nodded, tugging him toward her. “We most certainly should.”

***

Down the hall, Daphne sat at her vanity, chin propped against her hand, studying the reflection that stared back at her. The faint shadows beneath her eyes had become permanent, etched into her face after years of chasing after August. Another wave of nausea rolled through her, sharp enough to make her press a hand to her temple and breathe slow until it passed. Beyond the window, the storm clawed harder, branches scraping against the glass as though demanding entry.

“August is asleep,” Simon said softly as he appeared in the doorway, his voice warm but cautious, as though afraid to disturb her reverie. His shirt was undone at the cuffs, sleeves rolled past his forearms, his hair mussed from the nightly wrestle of getting their son into bed. “Though there’s a chance there are still a handful of jelly biscuits in that chest. He had it tucked so firmly under his arm, I couldn’t open it.”

Daphne tried to laugh, but the sound came a beat too late. Simon caught it instantly. He always did.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, the crease of concern already deepening between his brows.

“I’m late,” she said quietly, almost as though speaking the words aloud might make them less true.

Simon leaned against the doorframe. “Late for what?”

She turned in her chair to face him, heart hammering. “I’m late, Simon.”

The word ‘oh’ slipped from his mouth more as a shape than a sound, landing heavy in the small space between them.

“Have you—that is, are you…?” His voice faltered, cautious, as if afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know.” Her fingers twisted in her lap, betraying her nerves. “I haven’t taken a test. I’m just…late.”

“Can’t you be late without being—”

“Pregnant?” she supplied for him.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“You can,” Daphne said softly. “But I’m not. Not usually. Not since…”

“Auggie,” Simon finished for her, his voice gentler now, though something bright flickered beneath it.

Her eyes flicked to him in the mirror, searching for reassurance, for panic—anything to mirror her own jumbled heart. Instead, she found his expression softening, a light she hadn’t expected warming his features. He crossed the floor to her then, resting a hand on her shoulder. The weight of it was steady, grounding, though his thumb betrayed him, tapping a nervous rhythm against her collarbone.

“What are you feeling?” he asked.

“Tired mostly. And a little nauseous.”

“No,” Simon smiled but shook his head, eyes crinkling. “I meant about—” he nodded gently toward Daphne’s stomach.

Her throat tightened. “We always said we wanted more, right?” she asked, not truly answering his question, but not fully avoiding it either.

“We did,” Simon nodded, and the brightness in his gaze sharpened, hopeful. She could almost see him leap ahead, imagining August’s sticky hands holding a baby sibling, imagining another laugh in the halls.

Then why did Daphne feel so uncertain? So unprepared, so wholly over her head? Once, she had feared there would never be children at all—no son laughing down the hall, no sticky kisses goodnight, no messy, sprawling family. The ache of those years had been so sharp, so absolute. And now, with everything she had once begged the universe for, she couldn’t seem to summon the joy Simon wore so easily. That guilt pressed heavier than anything.

“Another child,” Daphne whispered, as though the words might summon it into being.

“Another child,” Simon repeated, but for him it was almost a prayer. His smile broke open then, boyish and unguarded, and Daphne caught the twinkle of hope that shone so easily for him. He wanted this. If only she could be so sure.

“Maybe,” she added, her voice thinner than she intended.

“We can stop on the way home and pick up some tests,” he offered quickly, as though already plotting their course.

She nodded, trying to conceal how fast her heart was racing, her gaze dropping to her pack toiletry bag with an unused pregnancy test tucked securely inside. She couldn’t bring herself to take it, not when she felt so split—half of her aching for certainty, half wishing she could borrow his joy just long enough to believe it for herself.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The house groaned around them, a draft whispering at the windowpanes, the storm’s persistence impossible to ignore.

Simon bent and pressed his lips to the top of her hair, lingering there. “Whatever this is,” he said finally, the happiness still humming in his voice, “we’ll face it. Together.”

***

Farther down the hall, Francesca and John sat side by side on the small sofa in their room, John bent over a set of building schematics for an upcoming project while Francesca scrolled through a score, listening for the melody in her head. The stillness of the room was a welcome reprieve after forty-eight hours of unbroken noise and motion. Only the occasional groan of the wind reminded them the storm was still raging.

“You didn’t tell your mother about Scotland,” John said casually, not looking up from his pages.

“I haven’t had a moment of quiet to form a complete thought,” Francesca replied.

“I hear the Scottish countryside is very quiet.”

She hummed, half-amused, half-longing. Finishing the last few lines of the piece, she set aside her tablet and turned toward him. “I will tell her,” she said. “Tomorrow. After everyone has left, the house is quiet.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Can be informed in the group chat,” Francesca said with a faint smile. “That way I don’t have to listen to their protests in surround sound.”

John’s mouth quirked in agreement as he returned to his plans.

“I was going to tell her this afternoon,” she added, her voice quieter now.

He glanced up. “You couldn’t find her?”

“No. I did find her.”

John’s brow furrowed. “If you’re having second thoughts—”

“I’m not,” she said quickly. “Not about moving.”

“That sounds oddly like you might be having second thoughts about something else.”

Francesca hesitated, twisting her wedding band once before answering. “I overheard her on the phone. It was…an interesting conversation.”

John studied her, quiet but steady, as if weighing whether to push. In the end, he only said, “Interesting how?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. Her voice was even, but her eyes stayed fixed on her hands. “I need to sit with it.”

He nodded, setting aside his papers at last. “When you’re ready.”

The simple assurance loosened something in her chest. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. The storm pressed against the walls, but in here, at least, the stillness held. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The early morning light lingered through the blinds in lazy shafts, the quiet stretching through the old house in creaks and groans.

Colin wasn’t normally an early-riser. He didn’t normally live by set schedules at all, actually. His body lived in perpetually different time zones, never home long enough to recover from jetlag. He had learned to sleep when he could, work when he needed, and pass the rest of the hours however he managed.

His bags were already packed neatly in the corner of his room, despite it not even being half past seven.

He had made it. Survived two days rooming next to Penelope Featherington, and other than a few embarrassing blunders, he hadn’t done anything nearly as idiotic as the last time they’d spent an extended stretch of hours together.

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair.

The problem was, he wanted to do something idiotic with Penelope again.

That kiss after his mother’s birthday celebration in September had been reckless, spontaneous—perhaps slightly aided by the second glass of whiskey his better judgment had warned against—but life-changing nonetheless.

It had consumed his thoughts, flipped his world off its axis, uprooted him in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

Penelope had always been a friend. One of his very best. He couldn’t think of a time she wasn’t there: cheering him on, steadying him, supporting him just as fully—sometimes more—than his own family.

But now…now it was different.

Every time she laughed, some corner of his chest ached. Every time her gaze snagged his across the dinner table, he forgot the thread of whatever story he’d been telling. Even her silences undid him, the way she slipped out of conversations when the family grew too boisterous, her thoughts written across her face more clearly than she realized.

He knew he should keep his distance. They had pushed the awkwardness of that first kiss aside, blaming a thousand different things he didn’t truly believe. And somehow, they had found their way back to the rhythm of friendship.

One more foolish move could ruin everything—the ease between them, the trust. And yet he could not shake the thought that another foolish move might be the only thing that set him free.

But he had made it. Forty-eight hours under the same roof, just feet apart, his resolve still intact.

Mostly. 

Colin’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, startling him in the stillness. For a half-second, he thought it might be Penelope—then cursed himself for the thought.

Instead, the Uber app flashed on his screen: Severe weather conditions. No cars available in your area.

Colin frowned, refreshed, tried again. Nothing. Muttering, he switched over to his airline app, only to be met with the same blunt message: Flight canceled.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, read it again. And again. Each attempt confirmed the same truth: no car. No train. No plane. No escape.

Groaning, he let himself fall backward onto the bed. “Perfect,” he muttered to the ceiling beams.

From downstairs came the faint sound of August’s voice, chirping with the kind of glee only a two-year-old (or perhaps Eloise in a contrary mood) could muster at such an hour.

Colin pressed his palms over his face. “Perfect,” he said again.

***

“Good morning,” Eloise hummed, eyes still shut, curling tighter into Phillip’s chest. 

He smiled into her hair, his thumb tracing idle circles on her bare shoulder.  “Good morning.” 

She wasn’t usually one to linger in bed. Normally, Eloise rose with a list of things to do, questions to ask, battles to pick. But Phillip made lingering…appealing. His chest was solid beneath her cheek, his hand warm at her waist, the light from the window catching on the band of silver around her finger.

“How did you sleep?” he asked. 

“Wonderfully,” she replied, shifting just slightly so she could look up at him.  “How did you sleep?”

“My wife kept stealing the blankets,” a playful smile tugged at the corners of Phillip’s lips. 

“Yes, well, you know what you were getting when you married me,” she matched his smile, lazy and unguarded in a way few people ever saw. 

“I stand by my decision.”

“As you should.” 

He kissed her forehead. “You are in a good mood this morning.”

“We survived,” she announced, triumphant. “Two days. We let my family meet you, fall—nearly—as in love with you as I did, and now we get to leave before they find out we eloped.”

Phillip chuckled, toying with the ring on her finger. “And when do you plan to tell them the rest of our secret?”

“Eventually,” was all she offered before adding, “Preferably via letter. From another continent.”

He groaned, and she kissed the line of his jaw in triumph. 

“The important thing,” she went on, “is that we will be home in time for supper.  Amanda and Oliver will have a full account of their adventures to recite, and I intend to hear every word.”  

Phillip’s chest warmed at that, at how completely she had claimed his children as her own. He brushed his lips over hers. “It has been nice, though. Having a bit of time, just us.”

“A honeymoon of sorts,” Eloise agreed, her leg shifting to rest between his knees, her chin propped on his chest.

He hummed, kissed her again, slower this time. For a moment, Eloise let herself believe they had pulled it off—the impossible balance of secrecy and joy.  

Then both of their phones buzzed on the nightstand.

“Ignore it,” she whispered against his skin, kissing the curve of his jaw.

“I want to,” he said honestly, “But it might be the kids.”

She paused long enough to let him grab his phone from the end table and unlock the home screen.  She could feel the moment his body went tense.  

“What is it?”

“Our train has been canceled.”

Eloise pushed up on one elbow. “Delayed or canceled?”

“Canceled.” His voice was steady, but she caught the flicker of tension at the edge of it. He was already scrolling, checking again. “All trains suspended. Severe weather conditions.”

She was out of bed in an instant, crossing to the window in three strides. She yanked the curtains back and squinted against the blaze of white outside. Snow—at least a foot, maybe more—lay over everything.

“Oh,” Eloise breathed as pressed both palms to the glass, her breath fogging the pane. “We’re doomed.”

Chapter Text

The sitting room looked less like the stately heart of a country estate and more like a makeshift command center, buzzing with the frantic energy of an underprepared army facing an undefeatable enemy.

Outside, the storm muffled the world into silence. Inside, however, the guests stumbled in one by one—half-awake, tousle-haired, decidedly less dignified than they’d ever admit in public.

Daphne padded in first with August perched on her hip, the toddler wide awake and chattering while his mother’s eyes were still heavy with sleep. Simon trailed after them, already cradling a mug of coffee as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’ve got enough diapers for a few more days,” Daphne muttered.

“Perhaps this is the moment to attempt toilet training,” Simon suggested.

“You don’t think airports will be open by tomorrow?” Daphne asked, trying to keep the worry from her voice and failing.

“I think,” Simon replied as he peeked out the wide picture window, “that is a great deal of snow.”

“Was your flight canceled?” Colin asked, joining him at the glass. “I can’t order an Uber. Everything’s shutting down.”

“We’re grounded for at least twenty-four hours,” Simon confirmed.

Penelope shuffled in next, slippers scuffing, robe trailing, phone in hand. “They’ve declared a state of emergency—no travel unless it’s urgent.”

“This is urgent,” Eloise countered, making a beeline for the bar where someone had miraculously set out coffee and tea. Phillip was close behind her. “With Colin here, we’ll starve in two days.”

“Oi!” Colin protested.

Gregory flopped dramatically onto the sofa. “There’ll be plenty if you eat like one person instead of seven.”

“What on earth is going on?” Benedict asked, tightening his robe and running a hand through his untamed hair.

Phillip gestured to the window. “That.”

“The snow?” Sophie asked.

“More like a blizzard,” Penelope answered. “The forecast was wrong. Everything’s been shut down.”

Anthony and Kate arrived just as Francesca and John drifted in.

“What do you mean everything’s been shut down?” Anthony asked, his arm tightening around Kate.

“Well,” Francesca said, tugging her cardigan closer, “that explains why the halls are colder than usual. The house has given up, just like the rest of us.”

John pressed a kiss to her temple, unbothered. “I told you it would be an adventure.”

From the doorway, Hyacinth groaned dramatically. “If this is what you call an adventure, I want no part of it.”

“Are we truly stranded?” Francesca asked as John placed a hot cup of tea in her hands.

Anthony stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, surveying the chaos like a general readying his troops. Kate leaned against the doorframe, watching him with an expression balanced between amusement and exasperation.

It was a rare sight: the Bridgertons unpolished, in mismatched pajamas, gathering not because they’d been summoned, but because instinct had drawn them together—equal parts comfort and commiseration.

“Right,” Anthony began. “We’ll start shoveling the drive immediately. It might delay our departure, but—”

“The drive is three miles long, Anthony,” Kate interrupted, tugging the borrowed sweatshirt from her husband tighter around her. “And it’s still snowing.”

“If we work together—”

“You’d need a bloody army,” Colin muttered.

“Well, we have Phillip,” Anthony shot back. “Who, as a botanist, surely knows his way around a shovel.”

“Perfect,” Benedict said brightly. “Our fate lies with the man who sleeps in cactus pajamas.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Phillip glanced down belatedly, realizing he’d walked straight into the line of fire.

“They’re actually Euphorbias,” he corrected good-naturedly. “They look similar, but actually have a few key differences—”

“If everyone is finished with this riveting lesson on desert flora,” Anthony interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m trying to figure out a way out of this house.”

“I like them,” Eloise said warmly, slipping her hand through Phillip’s arm—only to freeze when the glint of her wedding ring caught the light. Her stomach jolted. She shoved her hand into her robe pocket before anyone could notice.

“That’s rich, coming from the man who sleeps in a Garfield shirt,” Sophie teased Benedict.

“Untrue,” Benedict replied, grinning wickedly. “Usually, I sleep nu—”

“Enough,” Daphne cut in quickly. “Shoveling is out. We have to accept it. We’re stuck.”

“Based on the news reports,” John added, scrolling on his phone, “we aren’t leaving the house tomorrow either.”

Anthony bristled. “But I—”

Kate laid a hand on his tense shoulder. “Have no control over this,” she said gently. “We’re safe, warm, together. There are worse ways to be snowed in.”

“Plenty of better ones, too,” Gregory muttered.

Voices erupted all at once:

“I can’t survive this noise another two days.”
“I didn’t pack enough clothes.”
“I do not eat for seven!”
“I’m trying to solve this!”

Until—

“Enough.”

Violet stood in the doorway, immaculate as ever in a neatly tied dressing gown, chestnut hair perfectly pinned. Her gaze swept across the room, calm but commanding.

“Would someone care to explain,” she asked evenly, “why my very grown offspring are behaving like unruly schoolchildren?”

No one dared answer. Anthony’s jaw worked. A few studied their feet.

Then, behind her, a tall figure stepped into the room carrying a tray.
He wore a dressing gown—unmistakably one of Violet’s—tied loosely at his waist.

His voice was calm, slightly amused. “It seemed a strategic moment for reinforcements. Tea?”

The room froze.

“Mother—” Francesca found her voice first.

“Who are you?” Gregory blurted.

“Gregory Bridgerton,” Violet snapped. “Manners.”

"Fine," Gregory amended sarcastically. “Who are you, please?”

“He looks like he belongs,” Penelope whispered to Eloise.

Eloise buried her hand deeper in her pocket. “This is certainly a plot twist.”

Benedict, ever unbothered, strolled over to clap Marcus on the back. “Tea delivered into the middle of a family skirmish? Inspired. I like him already.”

Violet set her own cup down with a deliberate clink. “This is Marcus. He is my…guest.”

“Guest?” Francesca repeated. “That’s the word we’re using?”

“I think we all know what she means,” Kate murmured.

“Well, Marcus,” Simon said smoothly, amusement tugging at his mouth, “you’ve chosen quite the weekend to visit.”

“So it seems,” Marcus replied.

Anthony’s voice cut sharp again. “Guest or not, I think we deserve an explanation.”

Violet lifted her cup, unbothered. “And you shall have one. After breakfast.”

Francesca’s gaze lingered on Marcus longer than her siblings’. To anyone else, she might have looked merely curious. But inside, her mind was already aligning pieces: her mother’s even tone, the mysterious early arrival, the evasions after dinner.

Yes. It was too neat to be a coincidence.

Still, she held her silence, though the raised brow she cast John earned his knowing glance in return. Later, she’d tell him what she suspected. For now, she only watched her mother—watched the faint pink in her cheeks, the way her hand rested just a little too close to Marcus’s.

Something was happening here. And Francesca, patient as ever, would wait for Violet to finally slip.

Chapter Text

The breakfast spread was a haphazard affair—platters of eggs cooling on the sideboard, toast stacked high beside an unlidded jam jar, and at least three different coffeepots in circulation as if sheer caffeine might ward off the blizzard outside.  It was not a formal meal, but a gathering of necessity, the kind where everyone clutched a plate or cup like a shield. 

Violet sat serenely at the end of the table, Marcus beside her, passing out toast with an ease that made it seem as though he had been there all along.
Anthony, however, wasn’t buying it. He had not touched his plate, nor unclenched his jaw.

Just then Marcus’s phone buzzed. One glance at the screen drew the faintest crease to his brow.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to the table at large, then turned to Violet with a quiet aside. “It’s Agatha checking in—you know how she frets if I don’t answer straightaway.”

“It’s no bother at all,” Violet assured him, her smile calm, composed.

Marcus inclined his head politely and slipped from the room, leaving Violet alone at the helm.

“Mother,” Anthony said at last, his tone clipped. “You promised us an explanation.”

“I’d like to start with why he gets to break the 'no-phones-at-the-table' rule,” Hyacinth muttered.

“Yes,” Violet replied smoothly, stirring her tea as though the room weren’t coiled tight around her. “Marcus—he is…a friend of mine.”

A beat of silence followed.

“We’ve known each other for years,” she continued, her smile holding just enough warmth to disarm and just enough air that no one would dare call her a liar.  “He is Agatha Danbury’s brother, as I’m sure you recall from Francesca’s wedding. A dear, dependable friend, who very kindly chose to weather the storm here rather than alone in town. That is all.”

There was another beat of silence.

“That’s it?” Colin demanded. “That’s the explanation?”

“Yes,” Violet said simply, matter-of-fact. “He is my friend. He came to stay for a few days to avoid the storm.  And that is the end of the matter.”

Gregory spluttered. “He is wearing your dressing gown!”

“Because I lent it to him,” Violet answered, maddeningly calm.

Across the table, Benedict was already grinning. “It’s not the strangest thing. Though I admit, I’ve never borrowed Sophie’s dressing gown.”

“Because you’d look ridiculous,” Sophie shot back, though her smile betrayed her amusement.  

“Exactly my point,” Benedict said, wagging his fork for emphasis. “If he can carry it off, perhaps we ought to give the man some credit.”

Hyacinth, who had been practically bouncing in her seat, leaned forward with wide eyes. “But she said he was just a friend.  You two are married.”

Penelope, ever pragmatic, shrugged. “Eloise and I share dressing gowns all the time.”

Benedict arched a brow. “Yes, but you’re both girls. Has Colin ever worn your dressing gown?”

Colin, caught mid-sip of coffee, nearly choked. Heat crawled up his neck—for one sharp, traitorous second, he had pictured it.  

Not the ridiculousness of wearing Penelope’s dressing gown, but the easy familiarity of it: mornings together, borrowed clothes, the kind of intimacy he had no right to imagine.  

“Absolutely not,” he blurted, too quickly, his voice roughened by the coffee in his throat.  

Penelope reached over to pat his back with mock sympathy, the gesture light and innocent—and yet it landed squarely against the jumble already tightening in his chest.  

“See?” Eloise said brightly. “Different standards entirely.”  

The laughter around the table rose again, but a few pairs of eyes lingered on Colin a moment longer, as if trying to puzzle out why he looked so very flustered.  

Anthony was the only one left unamused.  He shoved back his chair so abruptly it scraped across the floor. “If no one else has questions, I’ll be outside clearing the drive.”

Kate set down her teacup with a sigh and rose, following after him with the steady patience of someone who had been reeling her husband back from cliffs for years.

Violet merely lifted her cup again, her composure unshaken, though Francesca was watching her with hawk-like precision, as if the careful mask might crack if she looked hard enough.

***

By the time Kate reached Anthony, he was already outside, sock hat pulled down firmly over his ears and scarf tucked tightly under his coat, the shovel biting into the snow with impressive speed.

“At this rate, you might just beat the spring thaw,” Kate called, shoving her gloved hands deeper in her pockets.

“Go inside, Kate,” he replied, voice clipped, breath fogging in the cold.

“Not until I reel in my overprotective, albeit loving, husband.”

He paused just long enough for the scrape of metal against ice to stop. “What even was that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the house with the shovel. “A friend? Does she think we’re all daft?”

“I’ll admit, it seems…unlikely,” Kate said carefully, stepping closer. Snow crunched beneath her boots. “But perhaps unlikely doesn’t mean untrue.”

Anthony’s laugh was humorless, sharp in the crisp morning air. “Or it means she’s hiding something.”

Kate tilted her head, studying him as she let one hand rest lightly on the small of her abdomen. “Or it means she deserves the same privacy you cling to so fiercely when it comes to us.”

His jaw flexed, the shovel handle tightening in his grip. “This is different.”

“Because it’s your mother?” Kate asked softly.

“Because it’s my family,” he snapped, and then immediately exhaled as though the words had burned him on the way out. He leaned on the shovel, shoulders slumping. “She can’t just spring something like this on us. Not here. Not now.”

Kate slipped her hand through his arm, ignoring the stiffness in his posture. “Anthony Bridgerton, you’ve built your life on trying to control everything. The weather, your siblings, even me—though heaven knows you failed at that from the start.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Perhaps your mother has simply learned from you,” Kate continued. “She’s choosing her own path. That doesn’t mean she’s abandoning her past.”

He looked down at her then, eyes stormy. “It feels like it.”

Kate tightened her hold. “It isn’t. But if you keep swinging that shovel like a man possessed, you’ll convince yourself it is—and you’ll miss the chance to hear what she’s really trying to say.”

Anthony exhaled, and Kate felt his shoulders loosen—just for a moment. She decided to press her luck.

“Consider it practice,” she murmured, guiding his hand to rest with hers against her stomach. “For when this one does something outrageous that tries our patience and makes us question our sanity.”

Anthony bent to press his lips against her forehead, his thumb tracing small circles over her coat. “She would never.”

“He just might.”

He nearly smiled but let the argument drop with a forced exhale. “This is a bloody lot of snow.”

“It is,” Kate agreed.

“We are really stuck here with…Marcus until further notice.”

“Maybe you could use this time to try and get to know him—unless, of course, you’d prefer to dig us out of this mess by hand?”

Anthony groaned. “Both options seem equally useful.”

“Now, come inside. August was looking for you. Something about taking money from Colin?”

Anthony straightened, deadpan. “I told him I would teach him how to play poker.”

Kate blinked. “He’s three.”

“All the more time to develop his strategy,” Anthony replied.

Kate shook her head, tugging him back toward the house. “Daphne is going to love that.”

The shovel landed in the snow with a final thud as Anthony relented, letting Kate lead him inside.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned low in the grate, but the circle of men around the card table hardly noticed. Benedict dealt with a flourish, Colin already protesting that the shuffle was “suspect at best,” and Anthony kept one eye on Marcus, weighing every twitch of his mouth as though it were part of the game.

At Anthony’s knee, August sat proudly with a precarious pile of buttons and coins before him, his expression as serious as any gentleman at White’s.

“Remember, Auggie,” Anthony said gravely, sliding him two cards. “The first rule of poker is this: if we see Auntie Eloise, we hide our cards.”

August’s eyes went wide. “Why?”

“Because,” Colin said, peering at his own hand, “she will absolutely destroy us.”

Benedict snorted. “It’s infuriating how good she is.”

“The second rule,” Anthony went on, ignoring them, “is never trust your Uncle Colin if he says he has a good hand.”

“Unfair slander,” Colin said, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

“True,” Benedict countered, leaning back in his chair. “But also accurate.”

August solemnly gathered his cards to his chest, though one still drooped far enough for Marcus to glance at it. He caught Anthony’s raised brow and managed a quiet smile—the first flicker of ease between them all afternoon.

Just then the door creaked, and every man at the table moved at once: Colin clapped a hand over the cards, Benedict swept a cloth over the coins, Anthony shifted to block the view, and even Marcus reached instinctively for August’s handful of buttons.

But it was only Gregory, smirking. “Relax. I’m not Eloise.”

The room breathed a collective sigh of relief, and quickly reorganized their game as Gregory flopped onto the study couch.  

“Auggie,” Simon said seriously, “be a good boy, and tell me if Uncle Anthony has any red cards.” 

August’s mouth formed a perfect o. “I’m not supposed to tell!” 

“Good lad,” Anthony said approvingly, ruffling his hair.  “The third rule of poker: keep your Uncle Anthony’s secrets.” 

Colin groaned.  “Now he’s going to grow up exactly like you.” 

Anthony’s smile widened more than he intended—not solely at the thought of his nephew wanting to imitate him, but at the knowledge that soon he and Kate would have a child of their own. Someone to teach not just the rules of poker, but a thousand other things besides. The swell of it nearly lifted his chest right out of his sweater.

Simon caught the look, just for a beat, and his expression flickered—recognition, maybe even a spark of kinship—but he let it pass without comment.

“Help us all,” Benedict added under his breath.

Marcus chuckled then, low and unguarded, and it earned him a swift glance from Anthony. He didn’t look away this time.

Simon leaned back in his chair, watching him with the same measured ease he might use in the boxing ring. “So, Marcus. You play often?”

“A little at school. More chess than cards,” Marcus admitted, adjusting his hold on the hand he’d been dealt. “But the principle’s the same, isn’t it? Read the room. Decide when to risk, when to fold.”

Benedict grinned. “Careful, Marcus. You sound almost clever.”

“Almost,” Colin echoed, though the jab lacked any real bite.

Marcus only smiled faintly. “Or perhaps I’m just cautious. It’s served me well enough so far.”

Anthony studied him over the rim of his glass. “Caution’s a fine thing. Until it turns to hesitation.”

“Or until it keeps you from winning,” Simon added smoothly. “That’s the difference between a player who survives the game and a man who owns the table.”

The words hung there a moment, half-jest, half-test.

Marcus considered his cards, then set two down with a steady hand. “Then I suppose I’d better learn quickly.”

August slapped his little palms against the table with delight, scattering his buttons. “I win again!”

“Impossible,” Colin muttered. “The child is cheating.”

Anthony shook his head, but a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. He hadn’t decided what he thought of Marcus Anderson yet—but at least the man knew how to sit at a Bridgerton table and hold his own.

***

In the kitchen, a fine layer of flour dusted the countertops, a soft contrast to the heavy snow still pelting against the windows. Most of the women were still in whatever version of pajamas they’d stumbled into breakfast wearing, aprons from Violet’s stash tied in mismatched bows around their waists. The double oven glowed, filling the room with enough warmth to fight back the bite of winter creeping through the walls.

“All I’m saying,” Sophie remarked as she dusted a tray of cookies with sugar, “is that if something were to happen to the Garfield shirt, I would strongly consider naming our firstborn after the culprit.”

Laughter rippled easily through the kitchen, though it left behind a charged silence—the storm outside, the shift in plans, and the faint hum of secrets not yet confessed.

Francesca set her spoon aside and leaned against the counter, teacup in hand. “Speaking of naming things…Mother, how long has Marcus been around?”

Violet who was calmly cutting scones, didn’t so much as blink. “Oh, years. He’s an old friend.”

“Old enough to show up at family breakfast in flannel pants and a borrowed dressing gown?” Hyacinth asked, eyes glinting.

Sophie snorted into her sleeve, releasing a puff of flour. Kate hid her smile behind her teacup.

“I’m certain Marcus found the robe quite comfortable,” Violet replied serenely, sliding the scones onto a tray. “And really, isn’t it rather wonderful to have a friend who feels so at home? Why, look at Penelope and Colin. They’ve been friends for years.”

Penelope, elbow-deep in biscuit dough, froze. As though sensing eyes upon her, she stammered, “Oh, absolutely. Colin and I are…great friends. Nothing more. Nothing untoward—”

“Penelope was my friend first,” Eloise cut in firmly, her gaze fixed on the dough as if she could will her blush away.

“Oh, Eloise,” Violet said with that maternal sharpness only she could wield. “It doesn’t matter whose friend she was first. The important thing is that Penelope is practically family.”

“And is that the plan for Marcus?” Francesca asked mildly. “Since we are calling him a ‘friend’ now.”

Violet only lifted her brows, perfectly composed. “Really darlings, you’re reading too much into it.  You forget that at my age, one learns to treasure friendship above all else. 

She thumped the scones into the oven with a finality that dared anyone to push further. “Now—Daphne, the babies must be keeping you busy?”

The words landed like a dropped plate.

Daphne froze mid-pour, the measuring cup trembling in her hand. Her gaze darted to her mother, then to the group, her pulse loud in her ears.

“Babies?” she repeated, her voice pitched too high.

Violet blinked. “At your practice.”

Relief and panic warred across Daphne’s face. “Oh! Yes. Those babies. The patients’ babies. They’re…fine. Busy.”

“The babies are…busy?” Hyacinth asked, delighted.

“Well, not the babies,” Daphne corrected hastily. “I’m busy. The babies make me busy. Obviously. The patients’ babies.”

She exhaled sharply and tried to look industrious, scooping flour too quickly, the edge of the cup clattering against the bowl.

“That was…clarifying,” Francesca murmured into her mug.

Hyacinth launched into a tale about school, but Daphne hardly heard her. Her stomach gave another warning twist as she fumbled with the salt canister.

“You’re not about to put all of that in, are you?” Kate asked gently.

Daphne looked down in horror to see she’d nearly filled a second cup with salt. She set it down quickly, shaking her head. “Thank you. I don’t know where my mind is.”

“It’s been quite the day already,” Kate agreed kindly, though her gaze lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, probing.

“Look, Mommy!” August barreled into the kitchen, Newton at his heels, and the treasure chest firmly in his hands.  He set it carefully on the floor, so he could open it. “I got money!”

“Money?” Daphne echoed, aghast. “Where on earth—”

“Uncle Colin,” August said proudly. “I beat him!”

“Did you?” Daphne asked, eyes narrowing at the family arrayed around her.

“Anthony might have mentioned giving him a crash course in poker,” Kate admitted, wincing.

“I can’t believe they’re playing without me,” Eloise muttered to no one in particular. “Cowards.”

“Grandmama,” August said, tugging on her apron, “Will you help me count it?.”

“Certainly,” Violet replied with a twinkle. She brushed flour from her hands, took August’s small palm in hers, and let Newton trot at their heels as she steered him toward the door. “Let’s go see if your uncle can be made honest.”

The door swung shut behind them, and the kitchen seemed to exhale. Daphne slumped into a chair, rubbing her temples.

Hyacinth pounced. “We’re not actually buying this ‘friend’ business, right?”

“It does seem…abnormal,” Francesca agreed.

“Does it matter what we call it?” Eloise asked, briskly wiping the counters.

“Yes,” Hyacinth, Francesca, and Kate chorused.

Eloise rolled her eyes. “I only mean—I can understand her wanting privacy. Especially at the beginning. Let her see what it is without us putting expectations on it.”

“But if she’s lying—” Hyacinth began.

Eloise nearly dropped the spoon she was holding. She recovered too quickly, and Sophie, quiet at the edge of the table, saw her thumb brush instinctively against her bare ring finger. Sophie said nothing—just hummed softly, as though filing the moment away.

“She’s not lying,” Eloise insisted, voice sharper now. “She’s just…keeping something private. There’s a difference.”

“She’ll tell us when she’s ready,” Sophie added, her gaze steady on Eloise.

And Eloise, cheeks pink and pulse racing, couldn’t shake the suspicion that Sophie was speaking to her, not Violet.

Chapter Text

The library was dimmer than usual, the snow-muted light making the shelves seem taller, more secretive. Colin slipped inside with the air of a man evading pursuit, tugging the door nearly shut behind him. He exhaled, relieved to have escaped both Benedict’s teasing and Gregory’s endless questions about poker.

“You look as though you’re trying to outrun some poor decisions.”

Colin froze. Penelope sat curled in one of the wingback chairs near the fire, a book open in her lap. She looked up at him with a mixture of amusement and something else, something he couldn’t quite name.

He cleared his throat. “Only Gregory and his insistence for one more hand of poker. He and August bled me dry.”

She chuckled slightly, “You’re welcome to join me,” her eyes lingering on him a heartbeat longer than necessary, a small glint of hope playing at the corners of her gaze.

“I don’t want to intrude on your solidarity.”

“You should know there’s no hope for solidarity in this house,” she teased, and he caught the tiny lift of her shoulder as if daring him closer.

Colin moved further inside, his hand brushing the spines of the books. “Then perhaps I should apologize for intruding on your…what is it?” He tried to glance at the cover of her book. “Greek history?”

She shook her head, “Just some silly romance novel.”

Colin raised a brow, feigning scandal. “Romance? Pen, I would’ve thought you’d be buried in political treatises by now. Or perhaps the history of sheep farming in northern England.”

Penelope laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll have you know, romance can be just as instructive as sheep farming.”

“Mm, though I can’t imagine it smells quite as bad.” He grinned, and she rolled her eyes, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow over the flush rising in her cheeks.

Colin’s hand drifted along the spines again, restless. “So, tell me then—what profound lessons have you learned from this…silly novel?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “That sometimes what you’ve wanted all along can be standing right in front of you.”

Colin froze, his hand stilled on the shelf. Something in her voice tugged at him, sharp and undeniable. His throat went dry.

He tried for levity, though it cracked at the edges. “Well. That seems…dangerously specific.”

“It’s just a book,” Penelope said quickly, snapping it shut and hugging it to her chest. She rose, and as she brushed past him, her sleeve lightly grazed his arm, sending a little spark of awareness straight to his chest.

Colin stepped closer, the warmth from the fire brushing against his coat, and she leaned almost imperceptibly toward the space he’d just vacated. Their eyes met, close enough that he could see the uncertainty in her gaze mirrored in his own.

His hand reached for the book she had set down, brushing hers in the process. Neither pulled away immediately, and for a heartbeat, the distance between them seemed nonexistent.

A faint laugh, almost a whisper, escaped her lips, and Colin found himself smiling without thinking. He leaned a fraction closer, and she tilted her head, their foreheads nearly touching.

Then the door flung open with an authoritative creak.

“Colin, Penelope! Just the two I was looking for.”

Both froze, the charged silence shattering instantly. Colin jumped back, clearing his throat, while Penelope straightened with forced composure, pressing the book to her chest like a shield.

“We were just…reading,” Colin supplied.

“Hm.” Violet’s sharp eyes swept the room, missing nothing—specifically the way the two young people had been stealing glances at each other.

“Of course,” Violet said, the edge in her tone softening just slightly. “Typically how one spends one’s time in a library.”

The three stood in a stretching silence. Penelope’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of the book, Colin’s hand twitched near the shelf.

“You said you were looking for us,” Colin said finally, voice low.

“Oh yes,” Violet continued. “We’re going to have to shuffle our sleeping arrangements tonight. Due to the storm.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“The heaters are working overtime trying to keep up, and while we still have power now, well, if it should go out, our generator will only supply power to a small portion of the house. So we figured it best to close off the east wing to conserve some of the heat.”

“Are there enough rooms in the west wing?” Colin asked, trying to tally the sleeping spaces mentally.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you two about. It would require you two to bunk together.”

“Together?” Penelope’s voice cracked as her eyebrows lifted.

“Oh, I shouldn’t expect that it will be an ordeal for two friends as well acquainted as yourselves.”

“Mother, I—”

“I already put Gregory on the sitting room sofa. You’re welcome to the study if that seems a better option.”

“Eloise hardly fits on that sofa.”

“Like I said,” Violet offered as she turned back toward the door. “I think you and Penelope bunking together will likely be the best solution.”

Colin exhaled, letting his shoulders slump just a fraction. The near-touch, the brush of her hand, the way her gaze had lingered—every detail pressed against the careful rules he’d set for himself. Forty-eight hours, he reminded himself. Forty-eight hours he had managed not to do anything utterly idiotic. And now, in one brief, impossible moment, the temptation had returned with the force of a storm.

He glanced at Penelope, who was busy pretending the book she clutched had any claim on her full attention. I’ve made it this far, he muttered under his breath, and I refuse to throw it all away in the span of one distracted heartbeat. He straightened, forcing his pulse to slow, reminding himself that the fire between them could wait—if only he could wait a little longer.

The warmth of the room, the flicker of the fire, even the snow-muted light outside—the moment had been exquisite, yes, but now it was gone. Colin drew a careful breath, resolute. The world had shifted slightly in that room, and he knew he’d feel its tremors all evening, but he would survive. He always did.

***

Typically, by the third day of any family gathering, Francesca was looking for any opportunity—feasible or not—to escape for a few minutes of precious silence. Actually, now that she thought about it, she couldn’t even remember the last time all of her siblings and their spouses had been together for this long. Even for her wedding, several of them hadn’t arrived until the day before.

And while Francesca often felt like she didn’t quite belong with the rest of her family, she had inherited the very Bridgerton trait of not being able to walk away from a competition—especially a competition she felt with the utmost certainty she could win.

“Draw four,” she declared, her voice quiet but merciless as she slapped the card down. She turned to Daphne, her expression almost apologetic. “Sorry.”

“You are absolutely not sorry,” Daphne replied tartly, though she drew four cards with the grim discipline of a general accepting defeat.

“You’re right,” Fran said, lips twitching. “I’m really not.”

“Don’t gloat,” Daphne warned, passing the turn to Gregory.

Gregory already had his second-to-last card poised. He dropped it onto the pile with a flourish.

“Uno!” Hyacinth shrieked, pointing dramatically across the table. “You didn’t say it!”

“I didn’t even have time!” Gregory snapped.

“You had ample time,” Daphne interjected crisply.

“Just say it before you put the card down,” Francesca advised, her tone maddeningly reasonable.

Gregory groaned, throwing up his hands. “You three cheat. Constantly.”

Hyacinth gasped in mock offense. “You wound me! I would never cheat.”

“Then what’s that stack under your elbow?” Gregory shot back.

Hyacinth immediately leaned forward, covering the suspicious bulge of cards. “That is strategy.”

The argument broke into overlapping voices—Daphne insisting on rules, Hyacinth defending herself with dramatic flair, Gregory bemoaning his victimhood, Francesca quietly needling them with the confidence of someone who already knew she’d win.

Across the room, John sat in an overstuffed armchair, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he perused the paper. Simon occupied the chair beside him, scrolling through rugby scores with half an ear tuned to the chaos.

On the far side of the fire, Violet had taken up her embroidery, Marcus settled companionably beside her with a glass in hand. They weren’t speaking, exactly, but there was something in the way Marcus leaned in when Violet laughed at one of Hyacinth’s more outrageous protests—an ease, a familiarity—that caught Francesca’s eye mid-turn.

Marcus said something too low for the rest of the room to hear, but Violet’s lips curved, her hand pausing in its neat stitches. When she shook her head, smiling despite herself, Marcus only looked more pleased.

Francesca blinked down at her cards, though she wasn’t seeing them.

John must have noticed too, because when she glanced up, she found his gaze already on her. A raised brow, the barest curl of his mouth. She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile, and looked back down at the table before anyone else thought to follow her line of sight.

“Do you ever wonder,” John asked mildly after a beat, not looking up from the paper, “if we’re the mad ones for choosing to marry into this?”

“Every single time we gather,” Simon replied without hesitation. 

From the table came a shrill exchange:

“You can’t put a yellow draw two on a green reverse!”
“I’m colorblind!”
“Then why are you playing?”

Simon sighed and shook his head. “Which only proves how much we must truly love our wives.”

John hummed in agreement, flipping another page.

“Should we intervene?” John asked, nodding toward the fray, where Daphne was now confiscating a suspicious pile of cards from Hyacinth’s lap.

Simon leaned back, gaze returning to his phone. “No. Best to let them destroy each other.”

“Less work for us,” John said, and returned to his paper.

Francesca finally laid down a winning card with a quiet, merciless “Uno.” She collected her victory with the faintest smirk, ignoring Gregory’s groan and Hyacinth’s shrill protests about shuffling rights.

When she glanced back toward the hearth, her eyes met John’s again.

This time, he didn’t bother hiding the knowing look he sent her way.

Francesca exhaled through her nose, equal parts irritation and amusement, before standing from the table and leaving her siblings mid-argument to sit next to her husband.

“What do you think”—her gaze flicked to Violet and Marcus laughing over some private remark—“that is about?”

John followed her look, then folded his paper with deliberate care. “Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment until I see whose dressing gown he borrows next.”

Francesca gave him a look, halfway between a startled laugh and suspicion. “John…”

But she could not help but notice it too: her mother’s uncharacteristic lightness. The way her hand lingered near Marcus’s. The way her eyes flickered with amusement—and something else. Something Francesca couldn’t quite name.

“But it is something, right?”

“I think,” John said, sliding his hand over hers, “that only Violet can answer that.”

Chapter Text

Phillip was pacing the narrow corridor outside the sitting room. In the year and a half they’d been together, Eloise wasn’t sure she had ever seen him pace before. He was a man of stillness—rooted like the plants he tended. But now, with each turn on his heel, he looked almost restless.

“Were you able to get a hold of them?” she asked, folding her arms tight across her chest against the draft.

“Yes.” His reply came clipped as he fidgeted with his phone. “They’re fine. Thrilled, even. Though they were disappointed that Gloucestershire hasn’t seen the same snow.  They both wanted me to tell you that they miss you.”

A small smile tugged at Eloise’s lips. “Then why,” she pressed, sliding a hand around his waist to draw him closer, “do you look as though you’re about to be sick in that vase?”

That won a grin from him, brief but genuine. “Would you believe me if I said I haven’t been away from them this long since—”

He didn’t need to finish. Eloise already knew. “Since Marina,” she said softly.

He nodded, exhaling as though the admission itself had cost him. She pulled him closer until his chin rested on the crown of her head and his arms wrapped fully around her, grounding him the way she always did.

“Any word on when things might open back up?” Eloise asked after a beat, tilting her head enough to glance up at him.

Phillip sighed, the weight of it filling the space between them. “No.”

Eloise tightened her hold, her voice wry but steady. “Then it’s a good thing you married a woman with an endless supply of distractions.”

His low chuckle rumbled against her temple, and for the first time all afternoon, he stilled.

***

Dinner passed in the familiar hum of sibling banter, a blur of conversation, clinking cutlery, and laughter. Afterwards, they gathered in the sitting room, the snow outside having long stopped falling, muting the evening in a deceptive serenity.

Benedict had one arm draped around Sophie, the other fumbling idly with a pencil as his sketchbook lay open but abandoned in his lap. “So, Marcus,” he leaned forward slightly, “you’ve mentioned Bath once or twice. Do you make your home there permanently, or are you one of those restless souls who wander from city to city?”

Marcus smiled faintly. “Bath has been home for some time now, though I’ve done my share of traveling.”

“Restless souls do tend to find their way into our drawing rooms,” Benedict added, glancing at Colin.

Colin lifted a brow in the direction of Benedict’s pencil but grinned. “As do restless hands.”

Violet’s sharp eyes flicked between them. “Boys,” she warned.

Both men quieted, but even Violet knew it would be short-lived.

Daphne, always the diplomat, tilted her head. “And family?” she asked, as August toddled toward Benedict, clutching his treasure chest like a precious bundle. “Do you have children waiting for you in Bath?”

Marcus shook his head. “No children.”

Daphne opened her mouth to ask another question, but Marcus anticipated it. “And before you ask, I’ve never married,” he added with a knowing smile.

The room stilled, a fraction too long. Eloise gave a deliberate cough, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“How… surprising,” Francesca murmured, smoothing her hand over the fabric of the arm chair.  

“So what do you do, then? For work?” Gregory asked, grabbing another biscuit from the tray. “Or do you just sit around replying to emails all day like Anthony?”

Anthony bristled, but Marcus laughed lightly. “I manage some investments. Property, mostly. A dull answer, I’m afraid.”

“Not dull at all,” Eloise said, leaning forward, studying him too intently. “A stable occupation. Steady. Respectable.”

“Eloise,” Violet interjected, voice sharp.

“What?” Eloise asked innocently. “I’m merely saying it sounds like Marcus has the kind of occupation that would allow him to properly provide for a… friend. Should you one day choose that path.”

Hyacinth chimed sweetly, “And what brings you all the way from Bath to Aubrey Hall at Christmastime? Surely you had invitations closer to home.”

Marcus’s gaze flicked briefly to Violet before returning to Hyacinth with practiced calm. “I did. But I’ve known your mother a long time. When she asked if I might stop by while passing through, I could not refuse.”

Eloise’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Very neat, very careful, she thought. He’s rehearsed this.

Anthony leaned back, pretending nonchalance. “Years, then?”

“Years,” Marcus confirmed, though his fingers traced the rim of his glass.

August, ever the agent of chaos, toddled past Benedict again, dropping a bauble near Marcus’s foot. Marcus bent to pick it up, handing it back with a polite smile, the smallest flicker of awkwardness betraying the rehearsed story.

Francesca, ever inquisitive, tilted her head. “Then you must have all sorts of stories about Mother.”

“I might,” Marcus allowed, eyes glinting with amusement. “Though whether she’d forgive me for sharing is another matter.”

Violet finally lifted her gaze, sharp but smiling. “Indeed. And you’ll find I am less forgiving than my children.”

The siblings exchanged glances over Marcus’s head, a mixture of curiosity and mischief. Hyacinth’s fingers drummed the tabletop impatiently; Eloise’s eyes lingered on him just a heartbeat too long.

Marcus excused himself to fetch another drink, and as soon as the door clicked shut, the room seemed to exhale.

“If you all believe you’re subtle,” Violet said dryly, “you are sorely mistaken.”

“Well, you can’t blame us,” Benedict replied, leaning back, “we learned from the woman who is about as subtle as a hurricane.”

Anthony scowled. “We were engaging in conversation, nothing more.”

“Conversation,” Violet repeated, threading laughter through her words. She swept her gaze across them. “Marcus is my guest, not yours to cross-examine like some criminal at the Old Bailey.”

“I would just like to point out,” Eloise added, ignoring Violet’s pointed look, “that Phillip is my guest, and you all basically demanded a copy of his health records as well as his most recent pay stub.”

“We did no such thing. Do not be so dramatic, Eloise,” Violet amended, “plus that is different. You are my daughter.”

A chair squeaked as Hyacinth shifted, and silence fell for a beat too long. Violet’s lips twitched, warm but edged with steel. “When I have something to tell you, I shall. Until then, behave as though you were raised properly.”

Gregory coughed. “Well,” he muttered, “that went… poorly.”

“Gregory,” Daphne hissed, but Violet’s lips twitched before she returned to her embroidery, the children left to stew in their curiosity.

Chapter Text

With the questioning thoroughly squashed, the Bridgertons scattered across the sitting room in their usual comfortable chaos. Francesca sat at the piano, August beside her plunking determinedly at keys. Kate and Anthony occupied the settee with laptops open. Daphne and Simon bent over a puzzle. Hyacinth and Gregory hovered, alternately helping and sabotaging.

Sophie and Benedict had claimed a small table in the corner, a deck of cards waiting between them.

“Did you talk to her?” Sophie whispered, shuffling idly.

“I haven’t had the chance,” Benedict murmured back.

“Too busy losing to Gregory?” Her grin was wicked.

“It was a full day.”

“Invite her and Phillip,” Sophie nudged.

Benedict gave her a flat look. “Why would I—”

“Because then we can actually talk to them,” she said, sharp but smiling. “And watch them closer.”

“Eloise dominates every card game she’s in,” Benedict muttered.

“Exactly.” Sophie raised her brows. “She won’t be able to resist.”

Sophie straightened in her chair. “We’re dealing another round! Who wants in? El? Phillip? Unless you’re otherwise engaged?”

Eloise’s book slid from her hand with a graceless thud. The entire room seemed to pause.

“What?” she blurted, cheeks hot.

Phillip, quick on the uptake, bent to return her book. “I think your sister-in-law was asking if we wanted to play,” he said lightly. His eyes met hers with a silent plea to breathe. “We’d love to.”

“You are diabolical,” Benedict muttered to Sophie as Eloise and Phillip approached. “Remind me never to cross you.”

They settled in, Eloise still pink around the ears.

“What are the rules?” Phillip asked.

“There are no rules,” Sophie said sweetly. “Benedict cheats.”

“I do not—”

“He once tried to convince everyone that jokers were wild cards,” Eloise added.  “When the rules very clearly stated otherwise.”   

“These are all baseless accusations,” Benedict answered, flashing a grin that made Sophie groan in mock exasperation. 

“How did you two meet?” Philip asked as he looked at his hand and placed a card face-up on the table. 

“Wrong question,” Eloise sighed as she took her turn. 

“Why?” Phillip asked. 

“Because,” Eloise said, tossing a card down with a flourish, “we’ve all heard it approximately a thousand times.”

“We both teach in the same school district,” Sophie added.

Eloise waved her hand as if to move the story along.  “It involves masks, missed connections, and Benedict writing atrocious poetry in the family group chat.”

“It was avant-garde,” Benedict argued.

“It was unreadable,” Eloise countered. “Nevertheless, they were married within six months.” She smirked as she slapped another winning card on the pile.

Phillip’s brows shot up as the game quickly became less about rules and more about Eloise outmaneuvering everyone at the table.

“You’ve been holding that card the whole time?” Benedict demanded. 

Eloise leaned back, arms crossed, smug. “It’s called strategy, Benedict.  Look it up.”

Sophie laughed, delighted, then tilted her head at Phillip. “Are you any good with strategy games? Or are plants your forte?”

“Plants I can handle,” he said with a small smile.  “Strategy, not so much.  Though Eloise seems to have enough for the both of us.” 

Eloise, suddenly aware of his gaze, fumbled her next card.  “Yes, well.  Someone has to keep Benedict humble.” 

“Good luck,” Sophie mumbled with a cheeky grin.  

The cards were dealt again, and play resumed.
“Is your family in Gloucestershire too?” Benedict asked casually as he discarded.

Phillip hesitated for just a moment. Eloise’s knee brushed his beneath the table, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. “My mother is,” he replied, eyes fixed on his hand.
“Is that where you grew up?” Sophie continued.
“No,” Phillip said, then paused, weighing the words. “I moved there after university. It’s where my wife was from.”

Benedict and Sophie’s eyes shot up from their hands.
“She passed away,” Phillip added quietly. “Five years ago.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Sophie said softly.
“Thank you,” Phillip replied.

Eloise’s hand found his under the table, thumb tracing circles on his palm. For a moment, the game fell into a hush around them, something tender threading through the noise of the room.

Then Benedict slapped down a card with a triumphant grin. “Well, well—looks like victory is finally mine.”

“Finally?” Eloise arched a brow, the picture of indifference, though Phillip could feel her pulse in the twitch of her fingers.
“Try not to cry, sister,” Benedict teased.

Sophie groaned. “Don’t gloat until the last card’s played—”

“Too late,” Benedict declared, brandishing his final card. “Genius at work.”

Eloise only leaned back in her chair, calm as ever. Then, with devastating precision, she slid her own last card onto the pile.

“Checkmate,” she said, smirking as Benedict’s face fell.

“That’s not even the right game.”

“It is when I win.”

Sophie’s laughter rang bright. Phillip’s smile was quiet but sure, pride written plainly in the curve of his mouth.

It was Benedict, sulking good-naturedly, who finally muttered: “What I’m really wondering is how you put up with her?  What’s your strategy there?”

Phillip’s laugh was soft, steady. His eyes lingered on Eloise. “Eloise is like no one I’ve ever met. Quick, witty, smarter than I’ll ever be. But she’s also kind, and thoughtful, and fiercely loyal. The only strategy I’ve got is to work as hard as I can to be the kind of man she deserves.”

Phillip’s words hung thickly in the air between them. Benedict, for once, didn’t have a quip ready. His smirk faltered into something gentler, though he tried to mask it with a shuffle of his cards. Sophie only smiled, her suspicion edged now with something warmer.

“And on that note,” Eloise stood from the table, smiling as she tugged Phillip by the hand, “We are going to bed.  Do try to improve your game before tomorrow, brother.” 

She swept from the table with Phillip in tow, leaving Benedict gaping and Sophie laughing into her cards. 

***

Gregory and Hyacinth were the only two left in the sitting room, the former claiming the couch for the night in hopes that the sequestered wing would help properly heat the rest of the house. Violet placed a kiss to both of their foreheads with maternal warmth, smoothing Hyacinth’s hair and tugging Gregory’s blanket higher before rejoining Marcus in the corridor.

He offered his arm, and she took it as naturally as breathing.

“Your children are—” he began.

Violet lifted her hand, cutting him off with a smile. “I would like to say that whatever unseemly traits you’ve noticed were inherited from their father. But the truth is, I see far too much of myself in them.”

“I was going to say delightful.”

“You were going to lie,” she teased, though her eyes softened. “They can be a lot.”

“Ah. Well,” he said mildly, “two things can be true.”

They had reached her door without realizing it. Violet stopped, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. For the first time that day, the corridor seemed very quiet.

“Yes,” she said after a moment, her voice softer now. “I suppose they can.”

Marcus looked down at her, the corners of his mouth tugging as if he wanted to speak but thought better of it. Instead, he raised her hand from his sleeve and brushed his lips against her knuckles.

It was not the sort of kiss to be mistaken for politeness — not with the way he lingered, not with the way Violet’s breath caught in her throat.

It would be so easy to lean into him, to let the quiet swallow the rules she’d drawn around herself.  Too easy.  

She let her hand remain in his for a heartbeat longer than she ought before withdrawing it. “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Goodnight, Violet.”

She opened her door, then paused, glancing back at him with eyes that sparkled with both warning and promise. Only then did she disappear into her room, leaving Marcus in the corridor, very much awake.

Chapter Text

The bedroom was dark, only the faint glow from the snow outside brushing the walls with silver light. The mattress dipped as Simon settled in behind his wife, his upper arm draped over her shoulders, chest flush with her back, the other arm sliding under Daphne’s head so she was nestled into him. 

“How are you feeling?” he whispered, careful and low.

Daphne let herself melt into him, savoring the comfort his arms offered. “The same,” she replied softly. “Things haven’t…changed.”

She shook her head and pressed closer, letting the rise and fall of her breath mingle with his. Sensing her tension, 

He brushed a stray curl from her cheek, then let his free hand drift down to her waist, sliding gently across her hip until it rested on the middle of her abdomen, thumb tracing what should have been soothing circles. Where there may—or may not—have been a new life stirring.

Daphne tensed. Immediately.  Simon lifted the hand slightly, resting it back against her side, giving her space. “Are you going to let me in?” he prodded gently.

Her breath caught a sharp little hitch. “I—” she inhaled and shut her eyes. “I’m trying to figure out what kind of a mother it makes me if I’m not sure how I feel about this yet.”

Simon propped himself up on one elbow, shifting carefully so he could turn her toward him. His upper arm eased down from her shoulder to her waist, offering support without crowding her. “A human one,” he said, voice low and earnest.

“I should be… ecstatic, joyful. Not thinking about how exhausted and stressed I already am with one, wondering how we’ll manage if we are adding a second.”

“Daphne, what you are feeling does not make you a bad mother or a bad person.”

Her eyes glistened in the soft light, hands resting lightly on his chest. He gradually eased his upper arm away to his side, letting her feel safe and unpressured, while his hands remained gently on hers. “But it feels like it should. Everyone says you just know—that you should feel radiant and ready. And I don’t.”

Simon cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “There’s no rulebook for this. You love August, you love me, and you’ll love this child, too. If… if that’s what this is.”

She closed her eyes. “I have a pregnancy test. In my bag. I brought it from work,” she admitted.

“Would you like me to take it?”

A shaky laugh escaped her, half relief, half exasperation. “Wouldn’t that be a scandal.”

His smile warmed the dark. “We can do it when you’re ready. Together.” His fingers intertwined with hers. “We will figure this out together,” he promised.

“Together, yes. But right now it feels like I need a moment to just… breathe.”

“Then breathe,” Simon murmured, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “Right here, right now. No expectations. No plans. Just us.”

And she did.

***

Eloise rifled through the nightstand drawer for the third time, frustration rising in her chest.  She dropped to her knees, peering under the bed, then straightened again, twisting her hands.  

Phillip, already sitting on the edge of the mattress with his shirt half-unbuttoned, raised a brow.  “What exactly are we looking for?”

“My ring,” Eloise said, sharper than she intended.  “It was just here—I know it was.” She tugged open the drawer again though the act itself might summon it back. 

Phillip leaned back on his hands, utterly unruffled.  “You probably left it in the other room.  We did move half our things around when your mother shut off the other wing.” 

“But I had it this morning,” she insisted, crossing to check the top drawer.  “I remember—I accidentally wore it to breakfast.  The storm…it threw me off guard.  I put it in my robe pocket.  I’m positive I put it back in here when I came up to change.” She stopped, biting her lip.  

Phillip’s expression softened.  “El,” he said gently.  “It’s a piece of metal.  A very sentimental one, yes.  But it won’t vanish into thin air.  We’ll find it tomorrow in the light.  We know it’s here somewhere.” 

“Somewhere for anyone to find,” Eloise muttered, still checking under folded stacks of clothes. 

Phillip smiled, reaching to tug her gently toward the bed.  “Come to sleep, detective.  The case of the missing ring will keep until morning.” 

She allowed herself to be pulled, though her eyes still scanned the room as she slid under the covers.  “You’re far too calm about this.” 

“I’m married to you, aren’t I?” His smile was quiet, sure.  “That’s the important bit.  The ring is just proof to the rest of the world, which we’re currently hiding it from.” 

Eloise exhaled, her nerves only half-stilled, and burrowed into his side.  “Easy for you to say.” 

Phillip pressed a kiss to her hair.  “Tomorrow,” he promised. 

***

Penelope readied for bed with the precision of an expert marksman, determined to focus only on the task at hand. She opened the door to her new bedroom—and froze. Colin was crouched over a pile of pillows and blankets arranged on the floor, surveying his handiwork like it was a delicate construction project.

“What are you doing?” she asked, hesitant to shut the door behind her. The sudden privacy made her pulse pick up—not from fear, but from anticipation.

“Trying to make it comfortable,” he replied, eyes fixed on his improvised floor bedding.

“But why?” she pressed, stepping further inside. “You’re not planning to sleep on the floor, are you?”

“Well,” he said evenly, pausing his arrangements, “you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

Penelope’s brow furrowed. “Colin. There’s a king bed in here. Plenty of room for both of us. You’re thirty—if you sleep on the floor, you won’t be able to move tomorrow.”

His lips quirked at her bluntness, but he didn’t answer immediately. “I just thought… you might want the bed to yourself,” he said finally, as if that explanation settled everything.

“Not if it means that you’re sleeping on the ground.”

He hesitated, brows knitting in concentration as he looked from his pile of pillows to the large bed.

She crossed her arms, forcing her mouth not to twitch into a smile. “We are both adults, Colin. Sharing the bed is not going to kill us.”

She turned to place her cosmetic bag back on her suitcase, as if that settled the argument. Her fingers lingered too long on the zipper, buying her a moment to breathe. Colin couldn’t help but notice the way her leggings hugged her, the way her oversized shirt slipped loose on one shoulder. His throat went dry.

“It might actually,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Penelope asked, still pretending to fuss with her bag.

“Nothing,” Colin said more clearly. “Just wondering if we’ll need more pillows.”

“I think between the dozen on the floor and the dozen already on the bed, we’ll be alright. Does your mother have an in with a pillow supplier I should know about?”

“My mother apparently has several connections I was unaware of.”

“Marcus?” Pen asked, rubbing lotion slowly into her hands. Her fingers moved deliberately, almost absently, as if the task kept her from looking directly at him. “Does it bother you?”

Colin shook his head. “Not really. She seems happy. I don’t want to think about what they were planning to do in this house alone.” He shuddered.

This made Penelope laugh. “She said they were friends.”

“Friends can be more than friends.” The words slipped out before he could catch them. His heart lurched as if he’d just hurled himself over a cliff.

Penelope’s eyes shot to his, inquisitive, searching, and maybe a little hopeful. “Sometimes.”

The silence that followed was loud, thrumming. Colin thought about telling her everything then and there. About how long he’d wanted more, about how every stupid jest he’d made was just cover for how badly he wanted her. His fingers twitched at his side, half an inch from reaching for her.

Penelope felt it too. Her thumb rubbed over the lotion cap long after it was closed, as if keeping her hands busy would steady the ache that rose sharp and sweet in her chest. One breath, and she might blurt out everything she’d been biting back for years. One wrong look, and she might reach.

But she forced the cap back into her bag instead.

“Which side do you want?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Either.”

“What side do you usually sleep on?”

“I don’t have a set side,” Colin admitted. “Whichever I feel like.”

“You are an agent of chaos.”

Colin grinned. “I don’t like to let myself get too comfortable.”

“Because you might just find out that you’re content with comfortable?”

His throat worked. “I might figure out what it is I’m missing.”

Penelope swallowed. Her fingers curled tight around the edge of the nightstand, nails pressing into the wood. “Well, for tonight, get comfortable on the right side.”

She turned off the lamp, slid into bed, and fussed too long with her pillow before pulling the covers to her chin. She forced her hands to still, but her pulse thundered.

Colin clicked the other lamp off, the room plunging into darkness. He settled slowly beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress. The bed groaned softly under their combined weight, and Penelope stiffened for a heartbeat before exhaling.

“Colin,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“It’s a big bed.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to hug the edge.”

“I just…want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

“I am.”

The air tightened, stretching taut. They lay there, bodies aligned but careful, each pretending not to notice the other. Penelope’s fingers twitched once against the sheet before she deliberately stilled them. Colin’s hand shifted near his pillow, the aborted motion of a reach.

She wanted to roll into him, to press her face against his shoulder and let the world catch fire. He wanted to drag her closer and never let go. But instead—

Just… don’t move, she thought over and over.

Just… don’t move, he internally repeated like a prayer.

The silence grew thick, almost unbearable. Side by side, fully awake, neither daring to cross the invisible line between them. The night stretched on, infinite and tantalizing, with only one rule: stay perfectly still.

Chapter Text

Penelope tended to wake in inches, letting the soft hold of sleep loosen its grip bit by bit rather than plunging her headfirst into reality. The fuzz of an unfamiliar room clung heavy before her eyes even opened. She squeezed them tighter, willing herself to stay cocooned in warmth for just a little longer.

She shifted, trying to adjust her pillow. It didn’t budge. She tried again, elbowing lightly—

“Oof.” The sound was deep, low—and most importantly, not hers. “That was my rib.”

Her eyes flew open.

The “pillow” she’d been nudging was Colin Bridgerton’s chest. She was draped across him like a human blanket: arm flung over his torso, leg tangled with his, his arm curled protectively around her as though—even in sleep—he’d been determined to hold her there.

“Oh my goodness.” Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m—I’m so, so sorry.”

Colin cracked one bleary eye, voice rough with sleep. “Sorry about what?”

“This!” Penelope sputtered, fumbling to untangle herself.

He made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a hum, eyes already drifting shut again. “Just come back to bed.” His arms tugged instinctively, pulling her closer before she wriggled free.

“Colin—” Her voice came out sharper than she meant.

That tone snapped him awake. He blinked down at the very obvious imprint of her warmth beside him, realized he was sprawled across the middle of the mattress with no regard for their carefully drawn boundaries. His eyes widened. “I—I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” she echoed, horrified. “It was my fault, clearly. I was the one—on top—I’m sorry.”

“Only because I stole half the bed.” He pushed up on one elbow, guilt written plain across his face.

She buried her face in her hands. “I drooled on your shirt.”

Colin glanced down, startled, then let out a startled laugh. “Ah. So that’s what that was.”

Penelope groaned into her palms.

“It’s really fine,” he said quickly. “Auggie does it all the time.”

She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“And Newton, sometimes,” he added, deliberately pushing her buttons.

“Colin!” She yanked her robe tight around her middle, marching toward the door.

He was out of bed in an instant, “Pen.” His hand closed gently around her arm before she reached the knob. His teasing had softened into something quieter, almost careful. “I’m only joking.”

“I know.” Her answering smile was too quick, too light. “It was a one-time thing. Another ridiculous story for us to laugh about one day.” She let out a half-laugh, but her gaze slid away. “We won’t have to worry about it happening again.”

And before Colin could say anything—before he could tell her he didn’t want it to be just a story—she slipped out the door.

He was left standing alone with the truth that had struck him like lightning: he never wanted to wake up without Penelope in his arms again.

***

Colin rubbed a hand across his face as he padded down the hall toward the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. The snowed-in haze of the last three days had left him with the perpetual sensation of living in a dormitory rather than his mother’s house—rooms full, corridors bustling, the constant scramble for hot tea and warmer socks. A shower, he thought, might restore him to some semblance of dignity.

But confinement with his family had reminded him of two things: one, the Bridgertons had no concept of privacy; and two, there were never enough bathrooms when half the house was shut off.

He reached for the doorknob—only to find it locked. With a sigh, he leaned against the wall, tapping his toothbrush against his palm. It would be just a minute. He could wait a minute.

He tried to focus on anything, anything other than the sensation of waking up with Penelope pressed against him. The way she had seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. How natural it had all felt.

He groaned softly and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

At last the latch clicked. Colin straightened, toothbrush gripped like a weapon, expecting Eloise or Hyacinth to barrel out in a flurry of towels and complaints.

Except when the door creaked open, it wasn’t one person who emerged—it was two.

Kate and Anthony strolled out, positively glowing with smug grins and an unbothered air, Anthony’s hand brushing possessively at the small of his wife’s back.

“Really?” Colin sputtered, nearly dropping his toothbrush.

Anthony just grinned, utterly shameless. “Good morning, brother.”

Kate smirked as they passed, looking like they’d won a prize. “The water pressure in this house is excellent, by the way.”

And then—they high-fived.

Colin blinked. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no words came. He was left rooted to the carpet as Kate and Anthony sauntered down the hall like conquering heroes.

It took him several long seconds to remember to breathe.

He wanted to scold them. He wanted to declare that such behavior was outrageous, indecent, unthinkable—especially under their mother’s roof. But the image that lodged traitorously in his head was not of Anthony and Kate but of himself, tangled up with Penelope in that same bathroom, steam curling around them, nothing at all between them but the hot rush of water and their own skin—

Colin buried his face in his towel. He was doomed.

Chapter Text

By breakfast, Colin’s indignation had at least crystallized into words. He dropped into his seat between Benedict and Eloise, refusing to meet Penelope’s curious glance across the table.

“We need ground rules,” he announced, stabbing his fork into his eggs with unnecessary force.

“About what?” Hyacinth asked, already smirking.

“The bathrooms.”

Anthony didn’t even blink. He reached for the jam, utterly unrepentant. Kate hid her laugh behind her teacup.

Colin’s grip tightened on his fork. Rules, he thought desperately. There had to be rules.

And then—because fate clearly enjoyed tormenting him—Francesca breezed in a few minutes later, hair damp, John trailing close behind.

“The water pressure in this house,” Francesca said as she buttered her toast, her tone eerily reminiscent of Kate’s earlier, “is fantastic.”

Colin nearly choked on his tea. The jam knife clattered against his plate.

Francesca’s faintly smug smile and John’s quiet hum told Colin all he needed to know.

It was going to be a long day.

***

The sitting room was a revolving door of Bridgertons. One moment hushed, the next alive with chatter, it seemed to collect family members like driftwood before sending them back out again.

Colin entered first, teacup in hand—only to stop short when Penelope rounded the opposite doorway. For one suspended heartbeat, neither moved.

“Good morning,” Colin said, his voice a shade too stiff, as though rehearsed.

“Good morning,” Penelope echoed, polite but brittle, her chin tilted just a little too high.

They both reached for the tea service at once. Their hands nearly brushed—both jerked back like the pot had scalded them.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, my fault,” she countered quickly, eyes flicking anywhere but his face.

A silence lingered—thick, heavy—before Penelope murmured something about Eloise and slipped away. Colin’s gaze trailed after her in spite of himself, then snapped deliberately to the far wall, jaw tight. The clink of his spoon against porcelain rang too loudly in the quiet that followed.

Moments later, Auggie toddled in with Newton trotting faithfully at his side, Kate close behind. The boy stretched chubby fingers toward the shelf where his wooden chest had been tucked out of reach.

“I’ll get it for you, sweetheart,” Kate said, reaching for the step stool tucked against the wall.

Anthony’s hand shot out, firm at her elbow. “Absolutely not.”

Kate arched a brow. “It’s a stool, Anthony. A foot off the ground.”

“And far too risky,” he countered, already plucking the toy down himself and depositing it into Auggie’s hands. Newton barked once, as if in agreement.

Kate managed a smile, though her jaw was tight. “Tell Uncle Anthony thank you,” she prompted, since she certainly couldn’t thank him herself.

“Thank you,” August mumbled before scampering off in search of his next adventure.

They rounded the corner just as the soft clink of a teacup echoed from the sitting room. Violet stood near the tray, arranging fresh scones with practiced ease.

She glanced at Marcus, who was collecting the used plates, and offered a small, knowing smile.

“I made sure the sunroom is quiet, if you’d like a moment away from the bustle,” she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of mischief.

Marcus’s lips curved in a slow smile. “And would you be joining me for this…moment of reprieve?”

“If you’d wish,” she answered, just as soft.

“Then I should like it very much,” he murmured.

Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer than necessary, a subtle acknowledgment of their unspoken understanding, before she turned back to the tea.

The quiet was broken again as Francesca and John slipped in, boots damp from the terrace. John shook his head with a rueful smile.

“It looks like we’ll be stuck here at least another day. The airport is still shut down—no travel until further notice.”

Francesca gave a dry little laugh. “I might just take Anthony up on his offer to shovel the drive. At least it would be quieter.”

John leaned close, his tone warm but edged with mischief. “But it does give you another day to tell your mother about Scotland.”

Francesca rolled her eyes heavenward, though the faintest smile betrayed her.

A loud groan cut through the room. Hyacinth stormed past with Gregory at her heels, dangling a cord in front of him.

“I simply asked if I could borrow it!” Gregory protested.

“And I simply said maybe you should figure out where your own charging cable went,” Hyacinth shot back.

“I’ve already looked everywhere. Who’s to say that isn’t mine and you misplaced yours?”

“Because I actually keep track of my things,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll let you use it—if you pay five pounds.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Gregory followed her out, muttering.

Violet and Marcus exchanged a quiet laugh, shaking their heads.

“Should you deal with that?” Marcus asked.

Violet sighed. “They’re nearly adults. Emphasis on nearly.” Her voice softened. “Now, I believe the sunroom awaits.”

***

“There you are,” Sophie said as she cracked open the door to their bedroom, August toddling close at her heels.

Benedict, sitting at the small desk overlooking the snowy back garden, turned with a grin that was immediate and genuine.

“And what brings my favorite nephew and my favorite wife to find me?” he asked, swinging his feet down from the chair he’d been using as a footrest and snapping his sketchbook shut.

“Your only nephew. And your only wife,” Sophie corrected, smirking.

“I want to paint!” Auggie announced, dragging his tiny treasure chest onto the desk before clambering straight into Benedict’s lap.

“Daphne looked like she could use a break,” Sophie said with a shrug.

“Well then,” Benedict replied, sliding his sketchbook aside to make room. “Paint we shall.”

While he helped Auggie dig out crayons and paints, Sophie drifted toward the bed, lifting the sketchbook he’d abandoned. “May I?” she asked, already settling onto the edge of the mattress.

“There’s nothing worth seeing,” Benedict muttered, fussing with a brush.

Sophie flipped a page, her lips quirking. “Funny, because this looks an awful lot like talent to me.” She turned another page and landed on a quick sketch based on a photo from the album Violet had given him. She traced the delicate lines of a young Benedict holding both of his parents’ hands. “When did you draw this one?”

He peeked over August’s head, eyes darting from the toddler’s paint-laden brush to the sketch in Sophie’s hand. “Yesterday.”

“You should give it to Violet.”

“It’s not good enough.”

“This—” she turned the book so he could see it “—is more than good enough, Benedict.”

He gave a short, dismissive huff. “Good enough doesn’t pay the bills. Or—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

“Or what?”

“Start a family. Sooner rather than later.” His voice dipped low, nearly swallowed by Auggie’s delighted squeal as paint splattered across the desk.

Sophie set the sketchbook down, her smile soft but steady. “Is that what you want? To start a family sooner rather than later?”

“Uncle Ben, can you do a circle?” Auggie asked, thrusting the brush toward him.

Ben obliged, eyes still lowered. “That’s what people expect.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I want children. Lots of them.” He looked up with a cheeky grin. “But I’m quite enjoying my days with just you right now.”

“As am I,” she said, moving closer to rest her hands on his shoulders.  “So what is it that you want?”

“I want…” His throat worked. “I want to paint. But what if I never make it? What if I’m just—playing at something that was always meant to stay a hobby?”

She tilted his face toward hers.  “Do you remember what you said to me when you asked me out?”

“That you looked like trouble in heels?” he teased.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You said, ‘I know we don’t know each other well. But I’m worried if I don’t try, I’ll regret it.’” She took his hand and squeezed. “Don’t let not trying be something you regret, Benedict.”

“You really are infuriatingly wise,” he said, tugging her down for a kiss.

Auggie held up his canvas proudly. “Look, Uncle Ben! I painted like you!”

“An abstract prodigy, no doubt,” Ben said with a smile, ruffling his hair.

Sophie leaned against the desk, eyes warm on both of them. “Seems to me talent runs in the family.”

Benedict glanced at her, caught the weight beneath her light tone, and felt his chest tighten in that way it always did when she saw him more clearly than he saw himself. 

Just then, the door banged open.  “Oi! You two—come quick. You’re going to want to see this,” Gregory announced, struggling slightly under the weight of a large tote, and completely oblivious to the quiet that had just filled the room.

"Have you ever heard of knocking?" Benedict asked as Auggie abandoned his paints without a second thought and scampered obediently after his uncle. 

But Gregory was already halfway down the hall, dragging a large tote behind him, and either didn't hear or didn't care. 

Sophie arched a brow at Benedict, amusement softening the interruption. "Do we follow?"

“With Gregory, it could be a snowman in Eloise’s likeness…or Anthony and Phillip actually dueling in the corridor.”

“Well, then,” Sophie grabbed his hand, laughter threading through her words. “We definitely better follow.”

Chapter Text

It all began with Gregory in the attic.

He had gone searching for the family’s old Monopoly game—which Violet had claimed she’d thrown away after a particularly rowdy game a few years back—but Gregory suspected it had been secretly sequestered, tucked between holiday decorations and boxes of childhood memories.

Instead, he returned with a plastic bin nearly as wide as he was tall. “Look what I found!” he crowed, dropping it in the center of the sitting room with a thud.

The excitement alone roused the family members lounging nearby—and even those who had escaped across the hall to the study.

Gregory lifted the lid with flourish. Inside, a tangle of brightly colored plastic gleamed: the Bridgerton family’s long-forgotten arsenal of Nerf guns, carefully preserved by Violet for “someday.”

A moment of silence followed—curious stares, raised brows, Eloise muttering about “barbarism.”

Then Hyacinth picked up the first blaster.

“It still works,” she announced, firing a dart squarely into Benedict’s chest.

That was all it took.

Within minutes, alliances were forged, furniture dragged into makeshift barricades, and the sitting room had transformed into a full-scale battlefield.

“Kate, get behind the sofa!” Anthony called, desperately reaching for more bullets to reload his gun.

“As if I would take orders from you,” she replied, unloading a round into his back before retreating with Hyacinth to their hideout in the study, the door slamming just slightly behind them.

“Brother!” Gregory shouted dramatically as he ran to Anthony’s side. “We must take cover.”

On the other side of the sitting room, Benedict popped his head over the back of the couch to survey his surroundings. Colin sat with his back against the couch, Sophie crouched nearby.

“I’m going to find more ammo,” Sophie announced.
“No, Sophie,” Ben took her hand longingly. “You can’t.”

“I must,” she declared, a playful smile on her face. “I did not marry into this family to sit idly by while we’re under siege.”

“Then at least,” Benedict sighed, “allow me one more kiss.”

Sophie dropped her blaster to the floor as Benedict pulled her in for an exaggerated goodbye before picking up her weapon again and slipping from the room.

Once Sophie left, Benedict exhaled and slumped against the barricade, blaster loose in his hands.

“You’re distracted,” he remarked, turning toward Colin, who hadn’t fired in minutes.

Colin blinked, fumbling to reload. “I am not.”

“You are,” Benedict said dryly, popping up to fire two rounds before ducking back down again. “And unless you’ve developed an aversion to winning, I can only assume your distraction is of womanly nature.”

Daphne peeked around the corner, meticulously sweeping the room. She spotted both Benedict and Anthony, each holding their ground.

“You wouldn’t shoot your nephew,” she said cautiously as Simon stepped into view, August clinging to his back with his tiny blaster and warpaint streaking his face.

“But I would shoot my sister.”

A volley of foam darts erupted across the room, sending Daphne, Simon, and August retreating down the hall in a frenzy of laughter.

Colin and Benedict ducked behind the sofa again.

“If I’m distracted,” Colin muttered, searching for loose bullets, “it’s only because I’m trying not to dwell on whatever…odd kind of foreplay I just witnessed between you and Soph.”

“She is simply the best,” Benedict shrugged with a lovesick grin. “So your disinterest has nothing to do with, let’s say, Penelope?”

Colin froze mid-reach, brushing against a foam dart on the carpet. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re abysmal at hiding things,” Benedict replied easily, firing without looking. “You two have been dancing around each other since you kissed at Mother’s birthday party in September.”

“You know about that?” Colin asked.
“Hyacinth saw,” Benedict clarified.
“So the whole family knows?” Colin muttered, reloading with exaggerated force.
“Why do you think Mother made you two share a room? Tell me, have you noticed a difference in the furnaces since the east wing was shut off?” Benedict raised a suspicious brow.
“My mother is trying to wing-man me,” he groaned—and then took a foam bullet to the temple.
“Sniper shot!” Gregory called from behind an armchair.
Colin seized the moment, firing three rapid rounds that sent Gregory tumbling back behind cover.

Benedict peeked over the barricade as Colin reloaded. “You’ve spent the last four days tiptoeing around her as though she were made of glass,” he said, firing at Anthony’s shelter. “And here you are, looking like a man caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella.”

“Fine,” Colin surrendered. “I am in love with her, is that what you want to hear? But she’s my best friend, practically part of the family. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I mess this up?”

“Then you muddle through like the rest of us,” Benedict said with a shrug. “But it won’t go wrong if you speak plainly. You’ll never know if you don’t try. And trust me”—he leaned forward, eyes glinting—“you’ll regret not trying far more than a little awkwardness or rejection.”

Colin paused mid-shot, his chest tightening at the truth of the statement.
“Sophie’s words, not mine,” Benedict clarified. “So if it all goes south, you can blame her.”

Colin let out a disbelieving laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Benedict said, ducking as a foam dart whizzed overhead. “Just not easy.”

Before Colin could reply, Hyacinth’s triumphant shriek echoed from the study, followed by Kate’s indignant cry, “That was my hair, you menace!”

The brothers exchanged a glance.
“Truce?” Colin offered.
“For now,” Benedict agreed, already reaching for fresh ammo.

***

The study had, by unspoken agreement, become a secondary battlefield. Its heavy curtains muffled the shrieks and thuds from the sitting room, and the smell of leather and ink lent it an air of civility utterly at odds with the foam-dart war raging just outside.

It was a place of shifting alliances and whispered strategy. Kate and Hyacinth had briefly barricaded the door before abandoning Phillip to his fate, and while he suspected Hyacinth’s loyalties were available to the highest bidder, he also suspected Kate and Penelope could be trusted.

At present, Penelope was huddled against the bookshelf, her knees tucked up as she stifled a giggle.

“Does it…” Phillip glanced toward the door, where the muffled sounds of battle carried on, “…usually get this intense?”

“Always,” Penelope said dryly. “Although the circumstances are usually different. Less…artillery.”

Phillip’s mouth twitched. “Eloise warned me about the Bridgerton competitive streak. I thought she was exaggerating.”

“She never exaggerates about that,” Penelope admitted with a rueful smile. Then, softer: “They’ve always been like this. Ever since we were children. They practically took me in.”

There was something in her tone—fondness threaded with hesitation—that caught his ear. “You sound grateful,” Phillip said carefully, “but also…uneasy.”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “No, not uneasy, just—when you’ve known people your whole life, sometimes it’s hard to…shift.  To imagine that someone who’s known you forever might look at you and suddenly see…something different.” 

Phillip studied her for a moment, then said, “It has been hard on Eloise being so far away from you this past year.  She is a private person, but she has admitted that freely, several times.  She cares for you deeply. If something is troubling you, I think you’d find her a better confidant than you expect.”

Her lips parted, as if to answer, but footsteps thundered past the door and Eloise’s unmistakable voice carried through the wood, issuing orders to Sophie like a seasoned general.

Phillip straightened, tone brisk but eyes alight. “I’m going to ask you this once: do you trust me?”

Penelope blinked, clutching her weapon tighter. “Do I trust you?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

“Well…yes—but—”

“Then follow my lead.”

***

“Should we be concerned about Fran and John?” Sophie asked, guarding Eloise’s flank as they carefully made their way down the hall.  

“Always,” Eloise muttered, a belt of ammo and extra weapons slung like a bandolier.  

She paused just outside the study door, only long enough to hear there was no immediate threat and then swung the door open with surprising speed.  The overturned sofa, acting a blockage, kept the women at the threshold of the room.  

“Penelope Featherington, surrender your ammo and your dignity at once,” Eloise called as she carefully stepped onto the couch and jumped over.  “And I’ll allow you to crawl from this battlefield with your pride mostly intact.”

Penelope, playing her part crawled from under the piano bench, both hands lifted in surrender as her blaster hit the floor with a thud.  “Eloise, please—” 

A sudden whoosh echoed across the room, a foam dart whizzed just past Eloise’s ear.  And then a second, pelting her squarely in the shoulder followed by a third and a forth all landing their mark.  She spun sharply, eyes wide. 

Phillip emerged from behind a bookshelf, a gleaming grin on his face, blaster still at the ready.  “You didn’t think you could take her down that easily, did you?”

“Et, tu, Phillip?” she gasped.   

Eloise’s jaw dropped, though Phillip saw the flicker of pride behind her playfully hurt gaze.  “Ambushed?  By you?  Does our love mean nothing?”

“Not,” Phillip cocked his weapon, “On the battlefield.”

Penelope’s shoulders shook with barely contained laughter, ducking as Eloise lunged at Phillip.  

“Go get reinforcements!” Phillip called to Penelope as he fired another shot off Eloise’s shoulder.

Eloise staggered back, clutching her shoulder, glaring and laughing all at once. “You treacherous man! I trusted you!”

Phillip lowered his blaster, smirking, and took a step closer. “I am loyal…just not to anyone trying to ambush my partner.”

Eloise blinked, and for a moment, the war melted away. She stepped forward, and before either could stop themselves, their foreheads touched, and a quick, sharp kiss bridged the chaos between them.

Sophie ducked behind the sofa, peeking out through the cushions. “Well,” she whispered to herself, “I knew I liked him.”

Eloise pulled back first, straightening her hair and clearing her throat, voice teasing but breathless. “Do not think this means you’re winning.”  She let herself linger in his post-kiss bliss one second more, and then, as if to prove her point, she fired into his stomach, point-blank. 

Phillip grinned, tilting his head. “Oh, I’ve already won—just not in the way you expected.”

***

Back in the sitting room, the roar of laughter, shouts, and ricocheting foam darts echoed off the walls. Barricades created a shifting maze, with family members darting from cover to cover.

At some point, they had vanished from the main fray, only to reappear here with unnerving precision. From a shadowed corner, two determined figures crouched behind an armchair: John and Francesca, the most unsuspecting Bridgertons, had formed a sniper team.

“Target in sight,” Francesca whispered.
“Steady…steady…” John murmured. Together, they fired a coordinated volley that caught Anthony and Benedict completely off guard. Anthony yelped, diving behind a sofa, while Benedict flailed, losing balance behind his barricade.

Daphne peeked out. “Are we sure they don’t work for MI6?”
Anthony squinted, searching. “Well…no, actually. That would explain a lot of things.”

Hyacinth squealed from a corner, firing a precise shot at Anthony’s arm.

Anthony grunted, ducking behind a chair. “I think not!” and returned fire, narrowly missing her.

Suddenly, the door leading from the dining room swung open. Marcus stepped in, tray of tea balanced carefully in his steady hands, with Violet close behind. Confusion knitted her brow.

“Violet—” Kate called from behind a barricade, noticing the collected pair entering the center of the foam chaos.

Before she could finish, a rogue dart from Gregory struck the tray. Tea sloshed, Violet shrieked. 

 Another dart hit Marcus in the chest.  He paused, blinked at the offending foam round as though deeply insulted, and carefully set the tray aside on the nearest end table.

“Ma—Mother!” Anthony shouted, diving to shield her. Kate and Hyacinth howled with laughter.

Benedict ducked behind a sofa, popping his head out to fire. “Retreat, family! Retreat!”

Simon and August scrambled for cover, shrieking with laughter, as Penelope, Eloise and Phillip peeked around a barricade near the piano, grinning at the chaos.

Violet straightened, brushing herself off, her hands on her hips. “I declare a ceasefire. All players—stand down!”

A chorus of groans, giggles, and playful protests filled the room as the family slowly emerged from their barricades, foam darts stuck to clothes and hair. Anthony helped his mother to the nearest chair, Kate flopped beside him, and Francesca cleaned her blaster triumphantly.

Gregory tossed a stray dart at Benedict, who caught it mid-air. “I”m beginning to recall why the arsenal was sentenced to the attic.” 

Violet shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Chapter Text

The room was eventually righted, chairs uprighted and cushions plumped, the only remnants from the morning’s chaos being the occasional stray dart tucked safely away for ‘next time.’

Kate paused in the doorway, August balanced on her hip, Newton padding loyally at her heels. The muffled sounds of distant laughter and footsteps had faded, leaving the house feeling unusually still—like it was catching its breath after the storm.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said sheepishly, holding August a little closer. “He needs a new diaper, and I wasn’t sure where you kept them.”

“Oh, I can change him,” Daphne replied at once, abandoning the unanswered emails at her laptop to fetch the bag.

“I don’t mind,” Kate said quickly. She wanted the practice, though her nerves buzzed at the thought.

“Are you sure?” Daphne handed over a fresh nappy, and Kate realized she had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

“Actually…” Kate gave a rueful laugh, eyeing the thing as though it were a cryptic puzzle. “Maybe you could show me how.”

“Of course.” Daphne scooped August from Kate’s arms, laying him on the bed. “It’s easier once you’ve done it a few times. They wiggle, though. Always.”

As if to prove her point, August immediately tried to roll away with a laugh. “Although once they get older it’s just for sport,” she smiled wearily. Daphne pinned him gently with one hand and peeled back the tabs with the other, explaining each step.

Kate nodded, trying to keep up, but her chest felt tight. “You make it look so simple. It must have been a comfort, knowing all this before you had your own.”

Daphne snorted softly. “If only. I don’t think it mattered how many deliveries I attended before Auggie was born. I still felt like I was fumbling half the time. Still do, if I’m honest.”

“You?” Kate’s brow furrowed. “You’re the most capable person I know.”

Daphne gave a half-smile, but her eyes flickered, betraying fatigue. “It’s still exhausting. More than I ever expected.”

Kate hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of the bed. The words pressed at her lips, hot and insistent. Anthony would want her to wait. He would say not yet, not until it’s safe. But Daphne wasn’t Anthony. Daphne would understand.
“I’m pregnant,” Kate whispered.

Daphne’s hands stilled on the diaper. She looked up sharply, eyes wide and then immediately softening, her voice breaking into a smile. “Kate.” It wasn’t shock, but joy—quiet, reverent.

Kate’s throat tightened, but she forced a small, shaky smile. “Anthony doesn’t want anyone to know yet. He wants to wait until…until he feels certain everything will be safe. But I feel like I’m carrying this secret inside me, and I—” her voice broke, “I just needed someone to talk to who wouldn’t wrap me in cotton wool.”

For a moment, Daphne only reached across the bed and took her hand, squeezing hard. “I am so happy for you and Anthony. Thank you for telling me.” Her voice was low, steady, brimming with warmth. “How are you feeling?”

“Slightly terrified,” Kate admitted, fiddling with the hem of her sweater. “But also so incredibly happy I feel like I might burst.” She gave a sheepish laugh. “And then there’s nausea and exhaustion.”

Daphne nodded knowingly. “That sounds about right. And for what it’s worth, you’re not alone in being terrified. Truly, Kate. I wish someone had told me that sooner.”

Kate’s eyes shone. “You really felt that way?”

“Still do,” Daphne admitted with a soft laugh.

“You make it look easy,” Kate said softly.

Daphne gave a surprised laugh. “Oh, it isn’t. Not even close. I don’t think it matters how many babies I delivered before Auggie—I still felt like I was failing half the time. Some days I still do.”

“You’re not failing.”

“Maybe not failing,” Daphne allowed, “but motherhood isn’t about perfection. It’s about finding your way through the mess of it. Some days that looks like doing everything right. Other days it looks like surviving until bedtime and calling it good.”

Kate let out a breath, some of the tightness in her chest easing. “That’s…oddly reassuring.”

“Good.” Daphne smiled, though it faltered just slightly, her eyes flicking away as if she were suddenly too aware of her own words. She bent to fasten Auggie’s fresh diaper, her movements careful, thoughtful. “And how is Anthony handling all of it?”

Kate exhaled shakily, some of the weight lifting. “Anthony means well, but if he could, he’d schedule every breath I take for the next six months.”

“That sounds like Anthony,” Daphne said dryly, and they both laughed, the sound easing the heaviness between them.  And then quieter, she added, “Has he ever told you about Hyacinth’s birth?”

Kate shook her head.

“He was there for it,” Daphne said, her voice lowering slightly. “It was after Father passed away. Mother had a high-risk pregnancy, but the labor itself was…intense. I wonder if that’s partly to blame.”

Kate’s breath caught, her hand instinctively brushing against her stomach. She could suddenly picture it: Anthony, young and already burdened, watching his mother struggle and nearly lose everything. No wonder he clung so fiercely to control now. “That must have been terrifying,” she murmured, her voice gentler. “For all of you. For him.”

Daphne nodded. “It was.  It’s also a big reason why I became an OBG-YN.” Then, more firmly, she met Kate’s gaze. “But you’re not Mother, and this is not that story.”

Kate swallowed hard, emotion pressing at her chest.

“You’re going to be wonderful,” Daphne said, her gaze steady and sure. “And whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. For all of it.”

Kate’s answering smile wobbled but held.

As she gathered the used diaper and passed Auggie back, Daphne’s hand lingered for the briefest moment against her own stomach—almost unconsciously, almost unnoticed.

Almost.

***

Francesca had tucked herself into the sunroom, a blanket pulled across her knees, the late afternoon light spilling pale and gold across the carpet. For once the house was quiet—no shrieks of battle, no footsteps pounding overhead. Just the rustle of pages as she turned another leaf of her book.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Violet said gently as she stepped inside, her voice soft enough to match the hush of the room. “I didn’t mean to disturb; I’m sure you’re craving some quiet.”

“Actually,” Francesca replied, setting the book aside with a small sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Violet crossed the room and sat beside her, smoothing her skirts before folding her hands in her lap. She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “I feel like I haven’t had a moment to breathe. And you and I have hardly had a moment ourselves.”

“Well,” Francesca said, fingers fussing with the edge of the throw pillow in her lap, “you have been rather…occupied.”

“Francesca—”

“I’m not here to meddle.” Francesca lifted her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just stating what I’ve observed.”

Violet tilted her head, amused despite herself. “And what is it, exactly, that you’ve observed?”

“Well,” Francesca began slowly, “for starters, you are smiling.”

“That is hardly abnormal.”

“It’s a different type of smile,” Francesca noted, studying her carefully. “There is a lightness about it…about you. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Like maybe, with Marcus, the world doesn’t seem so heavy.”

“Francesca, there is nothing to tell. Marcus is a friend and a nice man, but nothing more.”

“I believe you,” Francesca said simply, her voice even. “But sometimes there’s nothing to tell because we don’t allow the story to go any further than the first chapter. I simply don’t want you to miss out on a really good story.”

Violet stilled, then turned to study her daughter. There was a knowing glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “You are very wise.”

“I have a very wise mother.”

The compliment softened them both into silence. For a beat, only the faint ticking of the clock filled the space.

“And what about you?” Violet asked at last, noticing the way her daughter’s fingers still twisted the pillow in her lap. “Is there a book you’d like to read, but have found yourself…hesitant to start?”

Francesca’s breath caught—just long enough for Violet to notice. She thought about telling her then: about Scotland, about the possibilities waiting there, about the way her heart felt both restless and hopeful all at once. But this wasn’t the moment. She didn’t want to shift the light away.

“Oh, plenty,” she said instead, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips. “But for now, there’s nothing to tell.”

Violet regarded her for a moment longer, her gaze perceptive, gentle. “Sometimes the best stories begin that way,” she said softly.

Francesca’s smile deepened—just enough to suggest she understood. She leaned back into the quiet, her mother’s hand finding hers, their fingers resting together in the hush of the golden light.

Chapter Text

Colin nearly collided with Penelope in the narrow corridor, his hand darting out to catch her elbow before she stumbled.

“Pen, I—sorry,” he said quickly, though he didn’t let go right away. Her sleeve was warm beneath his palm.

Her pulse jumped, her breath catching, but she forced a small, polite smile. “No, it’s not your fault.” She clutched the book tighter to her chest, like armor. “I’m sorry.”

Colin shifted, moving instinctively into her path, unwilling to let her slip away just yet. “You're sorry? Why are you sorry?” His tone was lighter than he felt, but the words came out charged, almost sharp.

Her brows rose, her head shaking as if to brush it off. “I was clearly on your side...of the hallway.”

“My side of the hallway?” Colin closed his eyes for the briefest moment, trying to steady his thoughts, his feelings—but it was no use. Because Penelope was right in front of him, close enough for him to notice the faint flush at her throat, looking at him the way she always had. And for the first time, he couldn’t quite bear it.

“Yes, I was—” she began, but her voice faltered under his gaze.

“Perhaps it was my fault,” he countered softly. “I was in the middle of the hallway and left you no space.”

Her grip tightened on the book. “I had plenty of space.”

“Well, clearly you did not,” he said, his voice low now, “because we nearly collided.”

“Yes, well…” Penelope cleared her throat, the words thin, fragile. “It won’t happen again.”

The quiet pressed around them, too heavy for such a narrow hall. Something flickered in Colin’s eyes—something he nearly gave voice to. I want it to happen again. I need it to happen again. But the words stuck fast in his chest.

Her lashes lowered, and before he could speak, Penelope turned and walked away, the brush of her sleeve against his arm leaving him rooted in place, aching with the weight of all they hadn’t said.

Penelope kept walking, her heart pounding far too fast for such a simple encounter. By the time she reached the next turn, she found herself outside Eloise and Phillip’s room, her hand already lifting to the door.

Penelope peered inside, expecting an empty chair or the soft glow of a screen. Instead, two socked feet poked out from beneath the bed, the owner temporarily out of sight.

“Eloise?” she called, tentative.

A muffled thump and a small “Ow!” answered, and a moment later Eloise sat up on the bed, rubbing the back of her head as if waking from a nap. She blinked, then smiled at Pen. “Pen. Come in.”

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked as she closed the door behind her, folding her hands together as she tried to steady the nerves still jangling from the corridor.

Eloise tucked a stray curl behind her ear and settled properly, making a careful show of pushing a laundry pile to one side. Her eyes flicked—just once—to the top drawer of the nightstand, then back to Pen. She swallowed and chose the person in front of her. “I’m…looking for something. It doesn’t matter. Were you searching for me?”

Penelope smoothed the hem of her sweatshirt with nervous fingers, her pulse still unsettled. She didn’t quite meet Eloise’s gaze. “I was wondering if we could talk?”

“About Colin?” Eloise asked gently.

Penelope’s eyes shot up. “How did you know?”

“Hyacinth,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. She opened the drawer, she couldn't help herself, and gave it a quick sweep, then forced herself to stop.

Penelope’s cheeks warmed, and she nodded, twisting her hands together. “I don’t know what to do. We—last night…I mean, I woke up in his arms. It was…accidental, I think, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Eloise’s gaze softened, steady. Her hands stilled. “Pen, you’ve been dancing around your feelings for him for ages. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging them. It doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.”

“I’m afraid,” Pen whispered. “Afraid that if I tell him, I’ll ruin…everything.”

Eloise reached out, resting a reassuring hand over Penelope’s. “I know that fear. A few months ago, I would have said the same thing. And then Phillip surprised me by proving me wrong. Taking the chance was terrifying, but it’s also the reason I’m not alone right now.” Her thumb brushed lightly across Pen’s knuckles. “You’ll only regret not trying far more than a little awkwardness.”

Penelope let the words sink in, nodding slowly. “I suppose…”

Eloise smiled, warmth in her eyes. “Now, breathe. Let yourself think it through, but don’t be afraid to act. You deserve to be happy, Pen.”

Penelope exhaled, tension easing slightly from her shoulders. “Thank you, El. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Always,” Eloise replied softly, letting her hand linger for a moment before withdrawing it. “Now go. Figure it out. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Penelope backed toward the door, then paused as if to say more, before shaking her head and slipping out into the hall. Eloise watched her go—deliberately focused, wholly present—and only once Pen’s footsteps faded did her posture slacken. She glanced at the drawer again, a frown returning as she reached to open it.

Her fingers were barely inside when the bedroom door swung open.

“Aunt El,” Auggie’s little voice piped. “Can I have my book back?”

He walked in as though the room were his own, heading straight for the small desk where he’d left a picture book the day before after begging Eloise for her infamous character voices.

“Of course,” she said, abandoning the drawer just long enough to hand it over.

“Thank you,” he chirped, and left just as nonchalantly as he’d entered.

Eloise exhaled hard. She returned to the nightstand, rifled through it, then shoved it shut with more force than intended. Dropping to her knees, she unlatched her suitcase and began tearing through its contents, garments landing in haphazard piles around her.

The bedroom door eased open once more, this time Phillip stepped inside, hands full of a throw and a half-cold mug. He paused at the sight of the upturned bed and clothes strewn like confetti.

“You missed the twins so much you decided to recreate their bedrooms?” he offered. His voice was light, but his eyes were steady.

Eloise scrubbed at her face and forced a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “I checked the other room,” she said, suddenly small. “The one in the east wing.  I cannot find my ring anywhere.”

Phillip crossed to her in two quick steps and set the mug down. He took her hand and squeezed. “Okay, just breathe,” he encouraged her gently.

“We’ll look together,” he said. “Tomorrow.  Just us.  We’ll find it.”

She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Chapter Text

After a late, boisterous family dinner, the house had finally quieted, the laughter and chaos of the day long past. Daphne perched on the edge of their bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp painting Simon’s face in gentle gold. He was watching her, patient and steady, the kind of calm that had carried her through countless storms.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, her voice soft, almost swallowed by the quiet, as she folded a pair of August’s tiny pants and set them aside. “About…our situation.”

Simon tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And?”

She hesitated, picking up a shirt from the small pile and smoothing it absently. “I think…I think we should probably take that test.”

“We?” Simon raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, me,” she swatted at him playfully. “But I thought you could…nervously hover nearby.”

Simon chuckled, a low, reassuring sound. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Daphne smiled, a little relieved, the pulse of anxiety still beating in her ears. But somehow with Simon, it felt…manageable.

“Can I ask what inspired this sudden change?” he asked.

She moved the clothes to the dresser and perched on the bed again. “I just…I was talking to Kate today, and she reminded me of a few things I think I had forgotten among the chaos.”

Simon leaned back against the headboard, letting the shadows play across his features. “Like that you have a husband who is madly, completely in love with you?”

“She did not need to remind me of that.” Daphne rolled her eyes in mock exasperation as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I was waiting for the right time. I felt like I needed to have all the details worked out before we got the one answer that matters.”

He reached for her hand, warm and grounding, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “And what answer is it that you’re hoping for?”

“Honestly?” Her smile was small, nervous. “Whatever the answer, I have you. And we have August. And we’ll figure out the rest together.”

Simon’s mouth softened into that easy, utterly unflappable smile she loved. He squeezed her hand. “Then that’s all that matters. Whatever the test says, we’ll handle it. Together. With tea, and terrible baby names, and at least one sleepless night where I’ll be an absolute wreck despite my brave face.”

Daphne laughed, the sound loosening something tight in her chest. “You will be calmly stoic and hopelessly panicked. I know you.”

“I’ll be stoic,” he protested, though his eyes were warm and gullible. “Panicked is too dramatic a word.”

She rolled her eyes, then leaned forward and kissed him—quick, certain, the sort of kiss that sealed promises and quieted small fears. “Promise me one thing,” she murmured when they broke apart.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let me take it alone.”

Simon’s thumb brushed her knuckle. “Never.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “We wait until morning. It’ll be more accurate—my brilliant wife taught me that trick the first time around.” He sounded almost pleased at being useful in a small, domestic way.

Daphne let out a relieved breath and nodded. “You’ll have to wake early.”

“I will be front row, as you requested,” he said with mock ceremony, standing and offering her his hand. He carried the folded clothes to the dresser with exaggerated care. “With overly sweet tea and a timer on hand.”

She bumped his hip with hers. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For making it lighter.”

They lingered a moment longer in the glow of the room—fingers laced, foreheads touching—then padded down the hall to tuck August in. When they finally returned to bed, the house felt at once fuller and smaller: full of possibility, small enough to hold them steady through whatever the morning might bring.

***

Penelope clutched a stack of pillows to her chest, a blanket draped over one arm like armor, determined to make it to the study couch before her resolve could crumble. It would be easier this way—safer. At least, that was what she kept insisting, though her heart pounded hard enough to drown out reason.

She had just reached the door when it creaked open. Colin stepped inside and closed it firmly behind him. The soft click of the latch sounded alarmingly final.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice gentle but edged with something that made her skin prickle.

She didn’t look up. “Getting ready for bed.” Her tone was practiced, light, as if indifference could somehow steady her hands.

“Right,” he said slowly, stepping closer until she could feel the shift in the air. “But the bed—”

“I’m going to sleep in the study,” she cut in. “It’s just easier this way.”

“That couch is older than I am.”

“It will be fine for tonight.”

“You are not sleeping on that couch.”

“Colin,” she said, frustration blooming. “You’re being ridiculous. I can—”

“You cannot.”

“Why?” she huffed.

“Because I want to sleep with you!”

The words crashed through the room like a thunderclap.

Penelope froze. The pillows bit into her arms. The air thickened, charged, as if even the candlelight held its breath. Colin’s hand dragged through his hair, his composure fracturing right in front of her.

“I mean—” he said quickly, “not like that.” He stopped, swallowed, then exhaled in defeat. “Actually, exactly like that. But I will wait. I will earn it. Or if you don't want it, then I'll figure out a way to move on.  I just—” His voice faltered, a hand running through his hair.  “I can’t stand the thought of waking up tomorrow morning and not having you there. Not holding you.”

Her breath caught. “Colin—”

He pressed on, the words tumbling out now, too raw to contain. “I know we’re friends. We’ve always been friends. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to see what was right in front of me. But now that I do, I can’t pretend it isn’t there. That you aren’t the person I want—” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “The person I need.”

And then, softer but sure, “I love you.”

The pillows slipped from her arms. The blanket slid to the floor. His confession hung in the air, sharp and golden, the kind of truth that left no air to breathe.

“You can’t,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You can’t just say that to me, Colin. Not after all this time. Not when I’ve wished for it and prayed for it and convinced myself I was a fool to ever hope—”

Her voice cracked, the words spilling out faster than she meant. She clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified, as if she could shove them back inside.

For a moment, silence. Then something shifted.

He straightened, the uncertainty that had tangled his shoulders falling away. His eyes sharpened—bright, intent, utterly focused on her—and for the first time, she saw the man beneath the charm. Steady. Unyielding.

“You were never foolish,” he said—quietly, but with new conviction. “Not for a single moment.”

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them—like a vow, like a man who had finally stopped running from the truth. His voice had lost its tremor; his jaw was set. And when he looked at her now, it wasn’t with hesitation or apology, but something fierce, certain, hungry.

Her hand fell. The intensity of his gaze pinned her in place, dizzying and tender all at once—like he’d finally seen her, and couldn’t look away.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, every movement like a promise. “I love you, Penelope,” he said again, steadier now, his voice a low current that seemed to hum through her veins. “You are brilliant and stubborn and kind in ways that undo me. You’ve always been the one person I can’t imagine my life without. And I am utterly, helplessly in love with you.”

The sound of his voice cracked something open inside her. The years of restraint, the ache of almosts, the ache of pretending—it all surged at once.

“I love you too,” she breathed. “I always have.”

For a heartbeat, everything went still. The kind of stillness that lives right before a storm breaks.

Then she reached for him.

Her fingers found the edge of his jaw, warm and rough beneath her palm. He leaned into her touch like a man starved, letting out a soft, shuddering breath against her skin. Slowly, deliberately, he closed the last inch, his hand curving to the back of her neck.

The first brush of his lips was tentative, reverent, almost asking permission. Penelope’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the collar of his shirt, and the air between them thrummed with the weight of years of longing.

When his lips lingered, gentle and slow, she let herself melt into the touch, the soft pull of him awakening something deep inside her. His hand moved from the nape of her neck to cradle her face, thumb brushing along her cheek, while the other tangled in her hair, threading through the curls, tilting her head with precise, aching need.

The second brush of his lips was bolder, pressing closer, more insistent. Heat pooled in her chest, radiating outward, and her pulse slammed against his like drumbeats in perfect rhythm. She pressed into him, daring him to respond, her hands slipping from his shirt to his back, sliding along the strong plane of muscle, pulling him nearer until the space between them ceased to exist.

The kiss deepened then, urgent, all the swallowed words and quiet longing of years spilling into one continuous, consuming motion. His lips moved with a desperate precision, claiming hers as if each second had been stored for this very moment. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still, her body pressing against his, and the rhythm of their breaths tangled together with the pounding of their hearts.

He dipped his head, tilting her, and the kiss became hotter, faster, a wave of sensation that left them both gasping. She felt him shiver against her, felt the press of his chest, the roughness of his stubble against her lips, the electric heat of his hands along her spine.

When they finally broke apart, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the room seemed to hum around them. Her lips tingled, her pulse raced beneath her skin, and his thumb brushed along her cheek, trembling slightly as if his body still hadn’t caught up to his heart.

They laughed then—soft, disbelieving—like two people who had been holding their breath for years and had finally remembered how to exhale.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Penelope.”

“Then show me,” she whispered—not with uncertainty or embarrassment, but with quiet challenge, as though she wanted to see how far he would go before surrendering.

“No.” He shook his head, though his fingers still traced the curve of her spine, drawing idle patterns that made her shiver. “I meant what I said. I will wait. I will earn this, Penelope—”

“Don’t you think,” she cut him off, her hands sliding up the strong lines of his back, “that we’ve waited long enough, Colin?”

His breath caught as her eyes met his, clear and unwavering. “Pen…” he stuttered, the word more like a prayer. “Are you sure?”

“I,” she said, her lips brushing his, her voice a tremor of certainty, “have never been more sure of anything.”

***

The fire in their room had burned low, a steady amber glow flickering against the walls. Kate sat propped against the pillows, hair loose about her shoulders, Violet’s Christmas gift balanced across her lap. The leather-bound photo album was well-worn despite its newness, the pages filled with snapshots of Anthony as a boy—gap-toothed grins, scraped knees, moments she had never seen but somehow already loved.

Her fingers lingered on one photograph, tracing the outline of a child’s hand clutching a toy sword. She smiled to herself, then turned the page just as the door opened.

Anthony entered quietly, already tugging off his sweater, his expression still carrying the edge of the day’s worries. He stopped short when he saw her, his gaze softening at once.
“What are you doing?” he asked, nodding toward the album in her lap.

Kate looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Just looking through these. Your mother knows how to choose the perfect gift.”

Anthony crossed the room, the faint creak of the floorboards following his steps. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could feel the tension still wound tight in his shoulders.
“You should go to bed. You look—”

“Do not finish that,” Kate cut him off with a pointed look.

“I was going to say beautiful,” Anthony replied quickly with a cheeky grin as he dropped a kiss to her lips. “Always beautiful.”

He propped his feet beside Kate’s and shifted the album so it rested between their laps.

“I think we should tell your family,” Kate said quietly but firmly. “While everyone is here. Before we leave.”

“Kate—”

“Anthony, your whole family is here, under one roof. When was the last time this happened? When will it happen again? Let’s tell them while we’re together.”

“You have a doctor’s appointment next week—”

“We’ve had several doctor appointments already,” she cut him off.

“My intention was to tell them after. After we know everything is—”

“Safe? Perfect? Completely controlled?” she asked in quick succession, then paused to exhale. Softer, she added, “Daphne told me about Hyacinth’s birth.”

He raised a brow. “How did that topic come up?”

She shrugged. “I needed a confidant. The OBG-YN of the family seemed a likely solution. She sends her congratulations.”

Anthony ran a hand through his hair. “Hyacinth’s birth was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.”

Kate reached out, closing the album fully and slipping it onto the nightstand. “I can imagine. Daphne said as much.”

“I was helpless. Watching her struggle. Watching the doctors struggle—” he broke off, shaking his head. “I thought maybe if I had taken more off her plate after Father died, given her more space to grieve, helped with the children more, then maybe…I don’t know. Maybe her labor would have gone differently. I swore then I would never…never stand by and do nothing again.”

“You were eighteen, Anthony. You weren’t supposed to have all the answers. And your mother’s pregnancy was high-risk from the start.” She cupped his jaw gently in her hand, guiding his gaze back to hers. “It was not your fault.”

He nodded lightly. “But still I made a promise, and—”

“And you have kept it,” Kate interrupted softly, weaving her fingers through his. “You have done everything. You have been present at every appointment, asked every question twice, read more than I think even the doctors themselves have read. You even try to track my Omega-3s for goodness’ sake, and there is no use in denying it. I’ve seen the spreadsheet.”

“It’s essential to brain development,” he argued, almost indignant. “And most pregnant women do not meet the daily requirement.”

She arched a brow. “See? You’re doing it all and more. But this—” she pressed his hand against her belly, “this is not something you can control. Nor should you.”

His shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding from him in a slow exhale. “And if something goes wrong?”

“Then we face it together,” Kate whispered. “Not as you did with your mother—not alone as a boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. As us. As a family.”

Anthony searched her eyes for a long moment before a soft, incredulous laugh escaped him. He shook his head. “You really are infuriatingly wise.”

“Ah, well,” Kate smirked, “it was about time you figured that out.”

That earned her the ghost of a smile. He leaned in and kissed her—slow, grateful—and when he drew back, some of the storm had eased from his gaze.

“You really want to tell them?” he asked.

“They will be overjoyed, Anthony,” Kate said, her grin nearly uncontainable. “As we are overjoyed.”

Anthony dropped his hand to Kate’s stomach once more. “I am,” his smile now full. “So happy. Even in all the fears and uncertainty. This little one is already so loved.”

Kate covered his hand with hers, holding it steady. “And that is already enough.”

Chapter Text

The house was still and quiet, early morning light seeping pale and cold through the curtains.  A mug of tea steamed gently on the nightstand—too sweet by Simon’s standards, exactly as promised the night before—though he hadn’t touched more than a sip.  He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching Daphne pace. 

She twisted her hands, pressed them flat against her thighs, then twisted them again.  Her breath came in uneven waves, followed by deep exhales as if she could will the worry of anticipation to remain at bay. 

“How long has it been?” she asked, her voice pitched a little too high.  

Simon tapped his phone, “Twenty seconds.” 

Daphne groaned and pressed both hands to her face.  “Twenty seconds?  I could have sworn it was at least two minutes already.” 

“You’re bending time again,” Simon said lightly, taking another sip of his tea as though nothing in the world could ruffle him.  “It has its charms, but I assure you the laws of physics remain firmly in place.” 

She threw him a look, half exasperation, half gratitude.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely,” he said, deadpan, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.  “It’s rather more enjoyable being on this side this time.” 

Daphne sat for all of two heartbeats before springing back to her feet.  “What if it’s not—”

The doorknob rattled, and Daphne’s heart leapt into her throat.  Simon immediately stood, spilling a drop of tea onto his pristine shirt.  

“Mama,” Auggie’s little head peaked into the room.  

Daphne sighed.  “Of course,” she muttered.  “We can’t go three minutes without an interruption on a normal day.” 

Simon simply smiled.  “What do you need, buddy?  I thought you were eating with Grandmama?”

“I need my treasures,” he said simply.  

Daphne grabbed the treasure chest off the nightstand and handed it to him.  “Here you go buddy,” she willed her voice to be steady, normal.  “Now run along, back downstairs.  Daddy and I will be there soon.” 

Simon shut the door and locked it with a soft click for safe measure, while Daphne set back to pacing again.

“What if it’s not what we want?”

Simon’s expression softened.  He reached out and caught her hand as she passed.  His thumb smoothed over her knuckles, grounding her.  “Then we still have everything we already wanted.  Each other.  August.  A life that is ours.” 

Her throat worked as she swallowed, eyes shimmering.  She squeezed his hand back, then exhaled a shaky laugh.  “You sound so certain.” 

“I’m an excellent actor,” he teased gently.  “Inside, I’m pacing the floor right alongside you.” 

She smiled at that, small but real, and for a moment the air between them lightened.  

The timer buzzed on Simon’s phone, abrupt and shrill in the silence.  Daphne froze, her hand trembling in his.  

Simon turned it off with his free hand, then tightened his grip around hers.  “We do it together,” he reminded her softly.  

Daphne nodded, swallowing again.  “On the count of three.” 

His eyes didn’t leave hers.  “One.” 

Her breath caught.  “Two.” 

“Three.” 

***

The pale winter light filtered softly through the curtains, dusting the bedroom in a muted gold. Outside, the snow that had blanketed the estate for days sagged and melted, the faint drip of thawing icicles echoing in the distance.

Colin stirred first. For a long moment, he simply lay there, letting the quiet settle around him. Penelope was tucked against his chest, her hair a riot of copper curls, her breathing slow and even. The sight of her—the peace, the certainty—hit him with something deeper than joy. It was relief. After years of what-ifs and could-have-beens, this was real.

He traced slow, lazy circles on her bare shoulder, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

Penelope’s lashes fluttered. “Good morning,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Good morning,” he returned, grinning against her hair.  “Are you aware of how breathtakingly gorgeous you are?”

Her lips curved without opening her eyes. “Flattery before breakfast? Dangerous precedent.”

“I kept worrying last night had been a dream,” he admitted softly. “If I woke you, I thought the whole thing might vanish.”

Her eyes opened then, still heavy with sleep but glinting with amusement. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“Well,” he said, his grin tugging wider, “it was.”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that wrapped around him like a blanket. “Do you plan to spend the entire morning staring at me? Because I’m not sure I’ll survive under such scrutiny.”

“I might,” he said, rolling onto his side, propping his head in his hand. “Seems I’ve wasted far too many years not realizing I could.”

Her brows lifted, teasing. “Years?”

“You might have given me a hint,” he said, mock-offended. “A note. A neon sign perhaps.” 

Penelope feigned thoughtfulness. “Next time, I’ll send a formal notice.”

“I am, you know,” he said, feigning seriousness, “quite perceptive when I choose to be.”

“Mmh. Convenient timing,” she replied, trailing her fingers along his chest, the movement casual but intimate.

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being patient. For waiting while I figured out what everyone else already knew.”

Her expression softened, the teasing giving way to tenderness. “We found our way here. That’s what matters.”

Colin leaned in until their foreheads touched. “I intend to make up for lost time,” he whispered, voice low, deliberate. “In the most extravagant ways imaginable.”

Her smile curved against his mouth. “You have my full attention, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He kissed her then—slow, unhurried, a gentle echo of the night before. It was less about hunger now and more about promise. Her hand found his shoulder, her fingers curling against his skin.

When they finally broke apart, she rested her nose against his and whispered, “If you keep kissing me like that, we may never leave this bed.”

Colin’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “That,” he said, brushing his lips against hers again, “is precisely my intention.”

***

Eloise climbed the stairs with the swift precision of someone who had been darting through Bridgerton hallways her entire life, two mugs balanced precariously in her hands—one so sugared and creamed that “coffee” was an optimistic description, the other black with just the faintest splash of milk.

She nudged the door open with her hip and shut it quietly with her foot.

“And then Amanda pulled a block straight from the middle of the tower,” Oliver was recounting.

“It wobbled and leaned,” Amanda broke in, “but it didn’t fall down!”

“It was amazing, Father,” she finished proudly.

Phillip grinned, his face lit by the glow of the phone. Eloise set the darker mug down on the desk in front of him, earning a mouthed “thank you.”

Oliver must have caught it, because he piped up, “Is Eloise there?”

“She just brought me coffee,” Phillip replied, angling the phone so Eloise came into frame.

“Good morning, my dears,” Eloise smiled. “We miss you both dreadfully.”

“Eloise!” Amanda squealed, practically lunging for the screen. “Did you really shoot Father in the stomach with a Nerf gun?”

Eloise shot Phillip a look over her cup. “What lies have you been telling them?”

“No lies,” Phillip said solemnly. “I believe I still have the bruise to prove it.”

“And did your Father also confess how he ambushed me?” Eloise asked sweetly.

Between the two of them, the story was retold to great effect, the twins’ laughter spilling through the tiny speaker.

“Did you tell them the good news?” Eloise asked.

“We should be home late tomorrow,” Phillip explained. “We have an evening flight, weather permitting.”

“Before the New Year’s Eve countdown?” Amanda asked hopefully.

“Or will we be in bed?” Oliver added.

“You should be,” Phillip replied. “Whether you will be is another question entirely.”

“I’m not sure we’ll make the countdown,” Eloise admitted. “It depends on if there are delays—but we’ll come kiss you goodnight regardless,” she promised.

This seemed to appease them, and soon they were off on another tale from the day before. Eloise and Phillip listened like the most attentive audience, oohing and gasping in all the right places.

Then, at some unseen summons, both children turned their heads.

“Just a minute!”

“Karate?” Phillip guessed.

“Yes,” Oliver confirmed. “Grandmother says we need to get ready.”

“Be good listeners,” Phillip instructed.

“We always are,” Amanda sniffed, sounding deeply offended.

Phillip and Eloise both laughed.

“Hardly,” Phillip muttered.

“We love you both so, so much,” Eloise said. “And we’ll see you tomorrow.”

There were rounds of goodbyes and blown kisses before the call ended, leaving the room suddenly quiet.

Eloise sipped her coffee, her smile lingering as she looked at the dark screen, the warmth in her chest almost too much to contain. “I love this family,” she said softly before she could stop herself.

Phillip’s eyes warmed. “I’ve enjoyed being here with you.”

She shook her head gently, the happiness still swelling in her chest. “No, Phillip—I mean our family. The life we’re building. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”

He kissed her temple. “Thank you for wanting to be.”

“It is a strange thing,” Eloise mused as she ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “Living a life so very different than the one you pictured, and finding it’s infinitely better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers—

—but Eloise pulled back with a wicked smile. “But no matter how much I love you, I still haven’t forgiven you for yesterday.”

Coffee in hand, she swept toward the door, heading to the east wing with Phillip in tow to search for her ring, as they had planned.

Phillip laughed as he followed. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of today atoning.”

Chapter Text

Breakfast had been cleared, tea and coffee consumed, and the Bridgerton children had retreated, leaving a deceptive calm lingering in the sitting room.

In the corner, Francesca sat at the piano, drawing out each note as if by sheer will alone. The air was warm, faintly scented with pine and the fading remnants of the fire. Marcus placed another log on the grate before taking the seat beside Violet.

He was speaking of something—a work matter, perhaps—but Violet found herself distracted by the steadiness of his presence, the way his laughter seemed to weave itself between the harmonies of Francesca’s song.

“You are not listening,” he said at last, amused rather than reproachful.

She flushed, caught out. “I was…trying to place the composer,” she offered weakly.

“Mozart, I believe,” Marcus said thoughtfully. Then, at her dubious glance, he added, “I played a little growing up. Please do not tell your daughter, as my talents peaked at Ode to Joy.”

Violet laughed, quiet but genuine. Without thinking, she let her hand rest on the arm of the sofa, and Marcus covered it with his own. His thumb brushed over her knuckles once—light, steadying. She did not pull away.

From her place at the piano, Francesca caught the exchange in the reflection of the windowpane—the closeness, the unguarded ease. Something in her chest shifted, though her fingers continued unerringly to the end of the piece.

“I am…sorry…that our plans were derailed,” Violet said, her eyes not quite able to meet his. “But this time together with everyone has been nice.”

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know your children. Although next time, I will be packing my own Nerf gun,” he laughed easily, then faltered as though realizing what he had said. “That is, if I am invited back.”

Violet hesitated a moment, her gaze focused on a nearby vase.  “Would you come back?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

“If I were invited.”

“Well then…” Violet smoothed her free hand over the fabric of the chair, gaze still lowered as though steadying herself. “I should think there is a very good chance we will see you here again soon.”

The final notes of Mozart lingered, then faded. Francesca began another melody, softer, more contemplative, filling the silence.

Violet let the music wash over her a moment, then cleared her throat lightly. “And who is the composer of this piece?”

“Ah,” Marcus said, tilting his head with mock authority. “I believe this one is Chopin.”

***

Francesca’s fingers moved nimbly over the keys, not so much for the music itself as for the predictability of the melody—it lent order to thoughts she could not quite place. Her mother and Marcus had left moments ago, her hand in the crook of his arm, both of them laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the hum of the piano.

The last note lingered when John said, “You must be deep in thought.”

“What makes you say that?” Francesca asked, resting her hands in her lap, though she tugged absently at the sleeve of her sweater.

“You only ever play Chopin when you’re working through something,” he replied easily.

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. He was right. “I’ve never noticed,” she admitted.

John tipped his head. “Would you like a human to bounce your thoughts off of, or shall we move into his ‘Prelude in E Minor’?”

That earned him the faintest smile as she swiveled on the bench to face him. “They are…happy, you know. Mother and Marcus.”

“Ah,” John said, brows rising in understanding. “That’s what you’re thinking about.” 

Francesca gave him a pointed look. “I am nearly certain there’s something more there. I am only trying to determine if Mother truly doesn’t see it, or if she is simply…afraid to let herself.”

Her gaze drifted back toward the window, where the afternoon light spilled across the snow-covered gardens. “I wasn’t sure she would ever let someone else get close.” 

John reached for her hand, steady and warm. “And yet she has.”

A small smile played at her lips. “It is rather strange, seeing her not only as ‘Mama,’ but as a woman who can allow herself to be cared for.”

“Not so strange,” John murmured. “After all, you’ve allowed it yourself.”

Her breath caught—surprised—but softened at the warmth in his eyes. She reached for his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You do have a way of making everything sound simple.”

He bent to kiss her temple. “I think that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“It was.” She laughed and gave his hand one more squeeze before letting it drop.

“I’m going to continue now,” she said, turning back to the keys with a sly smile. “Not because I’m deep in thought. Just because I enjoy the melody.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of John’s lips as he watched her hands settle back into rhythm. “Of course.”

***

Benedict was sitting at the small desk overlooking the snow-covered grounds when Sophie stepped into the room to retrieve the cardigan draped over the chair. Instead of his usual sketchbook, he sat behind the glow of the laptop screen, brow furrowed as he pecked at the keys.

“I didn’t even know you knew how to turn that thing on,” Sophie teased.

“Colin had to show me,” he admitted. He shut the lid with a little too much finality and swiveled toward her. “Do you need it?”

“No,” Sophie shook her head. “No lesson planning over break, remember?”

“I wasn’t,” he said, catching her hand as she drew near. “I emailed my acceptance.” His thumb worried at her knuckles, his voice steady but careful. “The program. I told them yes.”

Sophie’s lips parted, a smile unfurling slow and certain. “You did?”

“I did.” His laugh was quiet, disbelieving, as though the words themselves still surprised him. Then, softer: “I keep waiting to feel like I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You haven’t,” Sophie said firmly. She turned his hand over in hers, pressing her thumb against the ink stains along his knuckles. “And I’m the wisest person you know, so you have to listen to me.”

Benedict lowered his brows in feigned concentration. “I thought I had to listen to you because you’re my wife.”

Sophie shrugged, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Well, there’s that as well.”

He leaned back, exhaling, letting her certainty anchor him. Then, almost reluctantly: “I still don’t know if I should tell the others.”

“Ben.” She cupped his jaw gently, keeping his gaze on hers. “You’ve wanted this for years. It isn’t a whim—it’s you finally giving yourself permission. Give your family the chance to see that.”

“They’ll say it’s foolish. That I’m wasting potential…or something.”

Sophie let the stubble on his jaw prickle her palm as she ran her thumb along the line of it. “Or perhaps they’ll see you finally choosing something for yourself.”

The tension eased from his shoulders, the lines around his eyes softening.

“Plus,” she added lightly, pointing back to herself, “wisest person you know.”

“As if I could forget,” he murmured, though the lop-sided smile tugging at his mouth said all she needed to hear.

***

Anthony stood before the mirror, shoulders squared, jaw set, expression somewhere between battlefield command and public oration.

“My dearest family,” he began, his tone serious. “It is with great joy that Kate and I—”

He paused, muttered something, and crossed out a line in the tiny notepad he held. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“My loving family. It is with the greatest joy that I announce Kate and myself…we are expecting.”

He grimaced, scratched again, marks sharp and hasty as though he were a general begging for reinforcements.

“Kate and I are pregnant!” he tried once more, a nervous laugh tacked on for effect.

“You make it sound as if this is a joint effort,” Kate teased.  “When in reality, I’ve been doing the majority of the heavy lifting.” 

Anthony whirled, caught out like a schoolboy.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see,” she gestured toward the mirror.  “Whatever that was.” 

“I was practicing.” 

“Yes, and quite badly,” she replied with a teasing grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm.  “Should I fetch a trumpet so the heralds can accompany you?”

His ears flushed.  “I want to strike the right tone.” 

Kate tilted her head, amused.  “Solemn?  Stiff?  Terrifying?  All very appropriate tones for a pregnancy announcement.” 

Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You think it’s simple? They will fuss. They will crowd. They will insist you sit every time you so much as think of standing.”

“Anthony Bridgerton,” Kate said, planting herself in front of him, “they already fuss. They already crowd. And you already insist I sit every time I so much as think of standing.”

He had the decency to look sheepish, then rallied. “You should probably sit,” he told her cheekily as he evaded her inevitable swat. 

“And what would you say if you were telling them?” he asked, still laughing.  

Kate slipped her hand into his, softening. “That we are having a baby,” she moved his hand to her stomach.  “No speeches. No rehearsals. Simply joy at this little life we’ve created.”

Anthony studied her for a long moment, his storm easing into awe. Then he sighed—dramatic as ever. “Fine. Although they will all be missing out on an Oscar-worthy speech.”

“However will we recover?,” she teased brightly, tugging him down for a kiss. “Though for the record, I much preferred the version with the trumpet.”

He groaned again, and she laughed into his kiss.

Chapter Text

Dinner had begun in relative peace, the kind of peace that came only when a dozen conversations wove themselves into a single, humming din. Silverware chimed faintly against porcelain, candlelight flickered over flushed faces, and the snow pressed against the windows, making the dining room feel all the warmer for its glow.

The Bridgertons filled the long table easily, siblings and spouses shoulder to shoulder, laughter skipping across the roast and potatoes as if it had been ladled out along with the gravy.

Yet beneath the warmth, there was a current—the kind that threaded through every glance exchanged, every hesitation before a sip of wine. Secrets hung at the table like an extra place setting no one dared acknowledge, and if anyone noticed the way Sophie’s gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on Eloise, or how Anthony’s hand brushed Kate’s more often than the meal required, they said nothing. Not yet.

“Honestly, you’re better off trying to find a taxi,” Colin was saying down the table, fork waving dangerously close to his neighbor. “The train system is so unreliable—”

“Colin,” Penelope cut in, nudging his elbow back toward his plate. “Do stop gesturing like a madman or you’ll send someone’s dinner flying.”

Across from them, Simon leaned in to murmur something to Daphne that made her laugh too brightly, then press a hand to her lips as though to smother it. At the far end, John was recounting a wry observation to Benedict, who countered with one of his own until Sophie’s quiet giggle broke through. Marcus and Violet spoke more softly still, their words half-lost beneath the swell of voices, but there was a warmth in the way they bent their heads together.

It was, in every sense, a Bridgerton dinner: loud, lively, and just a little bit precarious—like the whole affair might tip sideways at the faintest push.

“I’m all done,” Auggie exclaimed as he lifted his hands to be helped out of his high chair. “Can I have my treasure chest now?”

Simon stood to help the little boy get cleaned up and released him from his prison. “Here you go, bud,” Simon said, setting the small wooden chest on the table within easy reach.

Auggie beamed, dragging it closer with both hands, the little brass latch clinking as he snapped it open and shut, open and shut. No one paid him much mind.

“I’m sure my midterm grades are fine,” Gregory was explaining to Violet, his tone far too casual. “I’m not worried about it.”

“Which is,” Violet replied with slight exasperation, “exactly why I am worried.”

Across the table, Kate gave Anthony a questioning look.

He barely shook his head no, a small smile playing on his lips as if to say ‘Not yet.’

Kate took one final bite of her carrots and let her fork rest on the plate.

And then—just as Gregory leaned back in his chair with too much smugness, just as Violet inhaled to lecture him further—Auggie gave the chest one more triumphant shove.

The lid flew open, and its contents spilled in a glittering, clattering heap into the center of the table. Buttons, marbles, tiny figurines, and scraps of ribbon bounced between serving dishes and wineglasses. Forks rattled. A spoon teetered on the edge of a plate. Even Violet’s teacup trembled.

Daphne and Simon immediately leaned in to help, murmuring reassurances. “It’s all right, love,” Daphne soothed. “Accidents happen—”

Her hand froze. Right there, amid the chaos, gleamed something she recognized instantly. Her breath caught.

Her pregnancy test.

Simon froze too, fingers suspended mid-reach over the scattered treasures. His eyes flicked to Daphne’s pale face, to the tight set of her lips.

Around the table, realization began to ripple.

Kate’s fork paused mid-air, eyes narrowing as her gaze darted from the object to Daphne. Anthony’s hand twitched over his wineglass, a flash of panic crossing his features before he masked it with a tentative smile. Benedict leaned back, frowning, while Sophie’s eyes followed his, her amusement giving way to dawning understanding.

Colin, half distracted by Penelope leaning close to whisper something, caught sight of the chest’s contents and froze with a comic mix of curiosity and horror. Francesca set down her glass gently, watching the unfolding scene with calm detachment. John’s brows drew together. Marcus leaned slightly forward, expression polite but alert, and Violet gasped, her hand rising to her throat.

Only Auggie looked proud, completely oblivious to the chaos he had created.

“What is that?” Gregory asked, plucking the test up between two fingers and squinting at it. “Is it…some kind of thermometer?”

A stunned silence fell, sharp as crystal.

Kate’s eyes flicked to Daphne—her friend pale, lips pressed tight, one hand hovering near her mouth as though she might be sick. That frozen expression told her everything.

Kate’s decision was instant. Her hand slid to Anthony’s under the table. He followed her gaze, confused.

“Now,” Kate whispered through gritted teeth.

Anthony blinked. “Now?”

“Yes,” she replied, eyes flashing, a silent warning to obey.

“But—”

“Either you do it, or I do it,” Kate said firmly through her smile, her fingers tightening around his.

Anthony’s throat bobbed. A faint pink crept up his neck, and for a fleeting second, Kate thought he might actually faint. Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and declared—far too loudly—
“The test is mine. I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped fork.

Kate’s lips parted, half in horror, half in laughter. “That is to say,” she corrected smoothly, her hand finding Anthony’s under the table, “we are pregnant.”

The silence shattered. A collective gasp swept the table, followed by a beat of disbelief—then the space erupted.

Violet was across the room in three steps, embracing Kate in a warm hug.

“Brother!” Benedict leaned over and clapped Anthony on the back, his eyes bright. “How are you handling the morning sickness?”

“That’s already old, Ben,” Anthony muttered, though the grin spreading across his face was impossible to suppress. 

“Oh, that is wonderful news,” Francesca said, calm as ever, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink. “Congratulations to you both.”

A chorus of exclamations and questions followed, each tumbling over the next.

“How far along you, darling?” Violet asked as she held Kate lovingly by the arms.

“Twelve weeks,” Kate answered smiling. “Though the morning sickness has been bad as ever.”

“It will pass,” Violet assured. “Either in the next few weeks or, at the very worst, about six months.”

Marcus chuckled softly at her side. “You’d know best.”

Violet’s lips curved, her eyes soft with memory. “That I would.” She gave his hand a small squeeze before reaching again for her teacup.

“So you’re due in July?” Eloise asked, her brows scrunched doing the math.

“The eleventh,” Anthony confirmed.

“Summer!” Hyacinth squealed. “That means, I’ll be on summer holiday and can help babysit.”

“July,” Violet repeated softly, pressing her hand over Kate’s. “Your father was born in July.” Her eyes shimmered, but her smile was radiant.

“Do you know the gender?” Sophie asked, hugging Kate warmly. 

“A baby,” Colin boomed, pulling Anthony for a hug. “Was it a surprise?”

“Colin!” Penelope chastised, but Colin only grinned.

“We don’t know the gender,” Anthony said proudly. “Not yet, anyway, though Kate is convinced it’s a boy, while I rather hope it’s a girl.”

Daphne stayed frozen, cheeks flushed, hands tight in her lap. Simon squeezed her leg under the table, grounding her with a quiet, steady pressure.

“I don’t get the big deal,” Gregory muttered, still holding the test aloft. “If it’s not a thermometer—”

“You pee on it, you imbecile,” Hyacinth retorted.

Gregory yelped and dropped it like it burned.

Anthony reached across the table and picked it up, claiming it as theirs now. The family buzzed on, questions still surfacing, laughter and chatter filling every corner of the room.

Benedict, ever the agent of chaos, tipped his head toward Auggie. “And what else have you smuggled into that chest?” he teased. “Shall we see?”

August proudly obliged, flipping the lid wide to reveal the rest of the contents.

“My charging cable!” Gregory exclaimed, plucking it from the chest with relief. “I’ve been looking for that.”

“Well, that mystery is solved,” Benedict said dryly as he continued to sift through the treasures. His hand stilled when he caught sight of something silver glimmering in the candlelight. He lifted it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, who is missing their ring?”

The table hushed again.

But the ripple of aftershock was already spreading. Eyes darted from Kate and Anthony to Daphne and Simon, from Colin to Penelope, while Auggie beamed, entirely proud of the mess he’d orchestrated.

“Is it Sophie’s?” Kate asked.

“No,” Sophie replied, wiggling her left hand to show her wedding band securely in place. “That’s not our secret.”

“And what is your secret?” Violet asked, brow raised, seizing the moment to divert—cross-examining instead of solving.

“She simply means…” Benedict tried to interject, but Violet’s look was unyielding. With a sigh, he slipped his hand into Sophie’s, grounding himself. “I’ve been accepted into an art program in London,” he confessed, not quite meeting their eyes. “I’ll start next month.”

A stunned beat—then an eruption of voices: Violet’s soft gasp, Colin’s “At last!” and Hyacinth’s gleeful, “So you are running away to paint nudes!”

Benedict groaned, though Sophie’s hand squeezed his in quiet encouragement. 

“And what about teaching?” Anthony asked. 

“I’m…taking a break,” Benedict answered simply.  “I can’t manage both; the program is full time.” 

“Teaching will always be there,” Sophie added supportively.  

Benedict nodded in agreement, “But this was an opportunity, well, I couldn’t pass it up.  No matter how terrifying it is.” 

“You will do wonderfully, I’m sure,” Violet said, meeting his eyes.  “I look forward to hearing more about it.” 

And still the ring glimmered in the center of the table, stubborn and unanswered, tugging the family’s attention back to its mystery.

“As exciting as that is,” Anthony cut off their reactions, “we still don’t know who the ring belongs to.”

The married women at the table—Kate, Francesca, Daphne, and Sophie—all shook their heads; the ring wasn’t theirs. Gazes immediately fell to Colin.

“Don’t look at me!” he said quickly. “Penelope and I just got together—”

“When?” Hyacinth asked before she could stop herself.

“It doesn’t matter,” Colin sputtered, cheeks pinking, which only made the questions come faster.

“We will come back to that later,” Violet exhaled, slicing off the growing chatter. “If it isn’t Colin’s…”

Anthony’s gaze landed on Marcus. “What exactly are your intentions with our mother?” he asked, jaw tightening with every carefully measured word.

Marcus raised his hands in surrender. “I assure you, that ring is not—”

Eloise cleared her throat. Her fingers tightened around Phillip’s, her thumb brushing his knuckles in a quiet act of grounding.

“I think I can explain,” she said. Her voice wavered—just once—then steadied.

The table stilled. Violet blinked, still reeling from the prior revelations. Every eye swung to Eloise.

She took the ring from Benedict and slid it onto her hand. “Phillip and I…well,” she began, her chin held high, “we are married.”

Silence.
A single, suspended heartbeat.
Then it hit them—

The table erupted like a firecracker. Voices collided, chairs scraped, forks clattered against plates. Someone laughed in disbelief. Someone else gasped loud enough to echo.

“What?”
“To Phillip?”
“How?”
“Wait, when?”
“You’ve been married this whole time?”

Anthony pushed back his chair and stood, Kate’s hand automatically moving to his forearm to keep him from doing anything idiotic. Hyacinth’s shriek rose above it all. Gregory let out a low whistle. Colin muttered something unhelpful about “timing,” while Penelope covered her mouth with both hands.

“Quiet!” Violet said sharply, though even she sounded breathless. The room obeyed—mostly.

Hyacinth leaned toward Gregory, whispering furiously. Colin had the decency to look repentant—barely. Anthony’s jaw was locked so tight it might’ve cracked.

“I must have misheard,” Violet managed finally, her tone hovering between disbelief and awe. “You and Phillip are married?”

Eloise and Phillip nodded together, steady in their unity.

“To each other?” Colin added, but Violet’s pointed look quickly silenced him and any other sibling thinking of interrupting. 

“How did this happen?” Violet’s voice rose again.

“We went to the registry office…” Eloise began, squeezing Phillip’s hand.

Marcus, seated beside Violet, set a steadying hand over hers, guiding her wineglass closer as though to remind her to breathe.

“No,” Violet said again, shaking her head. “I mean—how did you go from refusing to even entertain the idea of marriage to being married?”

Eloise’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, well that part was easier, actually. I fell in love.”

The words seemed to ripple down the table like a shockwave. 

Gregory made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh; Hyacinth elbowed him hard enough to rattle the cutlery.  

Benedict leaned back in his chair, his ankle crossed over his knee, “Of course you did.”

Anthony dropped his head to his hands.  “But—” he lifted his head again, flustered—“what happened to ‘marriage is a prison’?”

“Apparently,” Colin muttered, “It’s one of those white collar facilities.  You know—the kind with yoga classes and a salad bar.” 

Francesca snorted.  Gregory coughed into his napkin, poorly disguising his grin. 

“Children,” Violet warned sharply, her fingers moving to her temple where she felt the beginning of a headache.  

“It turns out,” Eloise said airily above the whispers still circulating, “that the frightening things aren’t so overwhelming when you’re with the right person.” Her eyes flicked toward Phillip. “He never pushed, never persuaded me into anything I didn’t want. He saw me—truly saw me. Once I realized this was a partnership, that he wanted me to grow beside him, not disappear into him… well, I didn’t see the point in not making it official.” 

There was a collective exhale, like the entire table had just remembered to breathe. 

“Plus,” Eloise added sweetly, “the tax break.” 

Violet audibly gasped, hand flying to her pearls. “Eloise—”

“That was a joke, Mother.”

“I had hoped,” Violet muttered, though her lips twitched faintly. “It’s just…” she faltered, glancing toward Marcus, “…there are sometimes other reasons why a swift marriage can seem a wise solution.”

Eloise’s brows arched. “Are you asking if I’m pregnant?”

“I—”

“This isn’t Regency England, Mother,” Eloise interrupted, rolling her eyes—but then her voice softened. “And no, I’m not pregnant. This was a choice. A choice made for love.”

Violet sagged, the tension draining from her shoulders. Marcus’s hand brushed hers again, steadying.

Phillip cleared his throat, his glance toward Eloise almost a question. She exhaled. “Although,” she added quietly, “this might be the best time to mention that Phillip—well, we—have twins.”

The silence cracked like ice.

“Twins?” Violet gasped.
“You have children?” Colin blurted.
“Two of them?” Hyacinth squeaked.
“I’m going to need another drink,” Anthony muttered, slumping back.

“From my first marriage,” Phillip said quickly. “A boy and a girl. Seven years old—Oliver and Amanda.”

Violet’s hands flew to her mouth. “Twins? I have two more grandchildren, and you didn’t mention it?”

“I thought to mention it,” Eloise muttered. “I just thought I’d… put it off until the right moment.”

“I didn’t buy them a single Christmas present,” Violet gasped. “Not one gift!”

“It’s really alright, Mother,” Eloise reassured her. “They aren’t keeping score.”

Anthony dragged a hand down his face. “Twins. Already.”

Benedict glanced at Sophie, half amused, half shell-shocked. “Did you see this coming?”

Sophie shook her head, still stunned.

Penelope reached for Colin’s hand under the table, anchoring them both. Daphne’s hands fluttered at her lips until Simon’s quiet squeeze steadied her.

Across the table, Kate and Anthony exchanged a look—half awe, half disbelief. Francesca calmly lifted her teacup.

She set it down with a delicate clink. “Well,” she said lightly, “all this makes our move to Scotland seem tame.”

Every head whipped toward her.

“You’re moving to Scotland?” Violet demanded.

“Yes,” Francesca replied serenely. “At the end of the month. John’s family is there, and,” she paused, not quite ready to reveal the rest of their reasoning.  “We’re just ready for new opportunities, but it hardly compares to a hidden marriage and twins.”

The silence lasted all of half a second.
Then the room detonated.

Chairs scraped back.  Hands flew in a flurry of gestures and animation.  Voices tangled and crashed into each other. 

“You’re married and a mother?”
“How long have you been planning this?”
“You just quit teaching?”
“You and Penelope—when?”
“Fran, Scotland, really?”
“Wait, Penelope, did you know?”
“How far along, Kate?”
“Art school?”
“You eloped?”

Benedict was on his feet now, pointing dramatically down the table. “I’m sorry, what do you mean, Scotland?”

Hyacinth was talking so quickly no one could make out the words.

Daphne’s laugh pitched somewhere between delight and disbelief.

Colin’s hand was still in his hair, wild-eyed, muttering to Penelope like he was trying to do the math on all the new siblings, nieces, and nephews.

Newton barked under the table, tail wagging furiously, while Auggie shrieked in delight and banged his spoon like a drum.

Across the storm of voices, Francesca sipped her tea, perfectly unruffled.

“I quite like when they’re distracted,” John murmured, reaching for her hand. “No one ever remembers to be cross with us.”

Violet stood, trying to rise above it all. “Enough! Enough, everyone—”

Her voice vanished beneath the noise. Newton barked. Gregory and Hyacinth were still arguing over something no one could follow. Anthony was halfway out of his chair.

Marcus didn’t even flinch. He leaned back, entirely unfazed, and quietly refilled both their wine glasses.

Then Violet drew herself up—shoulders squared, chin lifted—and when she spoke again, it wasn’t loud, it was sharp.

“Everyone. Take. A. Breath.”

The words cut through the din like a conductor’s baton. Not all at once, but in ripples: chairs scraped back into place, laughter stuttered to a stop, forks hovered mid-air. A stray whisper or two lingered—Colin muttering something about Scotland, Hyacinth huffing—but the energy slowly drained from the room until only the crackle of the fire remained.

Anthony’s hand found Kate’s beneath the table. Benedict’s arm curled around Sophie. Eloise and Phillip exchanged a look, fingers still entwined, the diamond on her hand catching the candlelight. Even Auggie, wide-eyed, clutched his toy chest close, as if sensing the shift.

Violet surveyed the table—her family, frayed and flushed and impossibly dear—and exhaled. “Perhaps dessert in the sitting room will help,” she said finally, tone steady but soft.

“Not unless it comes with answers,” Hyacinth muttered.

“Hyacinth.” One word, pure warning. Then Violet added, more gently, “We can… reorganize our thoughts there.”

And so, one by one, they rose. The hum of conversation resumed, quieter now—bewildered, amused, tender at the edges—as they drifted toward the sitting room.

Questions would be asked, secrets untangled, laughter found again. But for now, they moved together as one great, curious tide, leaving behind the glow of candles, the scent of roast, and a scattering of toys in their wake.

Chapter Text

The family spilled into the sitting room like a tide, the noise of dinner still clinging to them in fragments—half-laughed questions, muttered astonishments, the clatter of too many people moving at once. Chairs scraped closer; rugs shifted under hurried feet. Someone opened a window, as if a breath of cool air might clear the chaos from the room.

But as everyone settled, something remarkable happened—no one spoke.

For the first time all evening, genuine curiosity managed what Violet’s sharpest tone could not. The noise dimmed. The air felt charged with anticipation, the kind that crackles before a confession.

Auggie clutched his treasure chest like a talisman. Anthony lingered on the arm of the sofa beside Kate, muttering something under his breath that earned him a soft elbow to the ribs. The others hovered in varying degrees of disbelief, craning to see who would speak first.

Amid the hum of barely-contained whispers, every gaze settled on Eloise and Phillip, their joined hands resting calmly in the center of the room—a quiet promise anchoring them against the storm.

“What?” Eloise demanded, catching the stares.

Phillip leaned in, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I think they’re waiting for more of the story.”

“I already told them the story,” Eloise declared, gesturing broadly, as if announcing a marriage and two stepchildren were the most ordinary thing in the world. “We are married. He has twins. We are happy. The end. I’d much rather hear about Colin and Penelope.”

That broke the fragile silence—just a little. A few stifled laughs. Colin rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks coloring. Penelope covered her grin with one hand.

“It is… new,” Colin admitted, though his smile betrayed him. “We finally realized we were ready to be honest. With ourselves. With each other.” He cleared his throat, desperate to divert attention. “Perhaps Ben’s art program is a better distraction?”

“As much as I am looking forward to Benedict’s news,” Violet cut in smoothly, “this”—she gestured toward Eloise and Phillip—“feels the more pressing matter.”

“I agree,” Benedict said at once, ignoring Violet’s pointed look. He leaned back in his chair like a man settling in for a play. “I would desperately like to know how my most marriage-averse sister ended up…this.”

Eloise groaned. “Really, Mother, must everything be dissected? Perhaps I should prepare a written report with footnotes and distribute copies?”

“I, for one, would enjoy that,” Hyacinth chimed.

Phillip’s lips twitched. “It isn’t much of a story, truthfully. But it is ours.” His hand tightened on Eloise’s. “The story we told you about how we met was true. I’d published an article with an online journal. A week later, I received a six-paragraph rebuttal from an investigative journalist who thought I was wrong.”

“I was sure you were wrong,” Eloise said primly.

Phillip’s mouth curved. “So I explained why she was mistaken. She responded. And then I responded. Six months later, she finally admitted I was right.”

“I did not,” Eloise protested, sitting straighter. “I said we would agree to disagree until I had a broader knowledge of agriculture. Planting marigolds to repel insects still sounds like witchcraft.”

“That sounds like Eloise,” Anthony muttered.

Phillip glanced down at their hands, his smile softening. “Somewhere in those months, the arguments stopped being about crops. One morning, her email ended with a single line asking if my day had been good. That was the moment I realized I didn’t want the conversation to end.”

“Not a problem you typically have with El,” Colin muttered.

Eloise flushed. “It was one line. At the end of a very solid argument.”

“And the only evidence I needed to insist we meet in person,” Phillip said.

“I required more convincing,” Eloise huffed. “But eventually agreed. I was not expecting…what followed.”

The room grew still—too still for a Bridgerton gathering. Violet leaned forward, eyes intent, hands clasped like she was taking minutes. Marcus shifted beside her, resting one steadying hand on her arm.

“And what, precisely,” Violet asked, calm but edged with maternal sharpness, “did happen next?”

“Mother,” Eloise groaned.

“Do not ‘Mother’ me. You have announced marriage, stepchildren, and courtship by email, all in one sitting. I think we deserve to know how we arrived here.”

Around the room, heads nodded eagerly.

Phillip chuckled, low and warm. “That is where things start to get interesting…”

“How interesting?” Daphne asked archly. “Interesting enough that Auggie needs to leave the room?”

“No,” Eloise rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with a flush. “I was scheduled to speak at a conference in Gloucestershire. We agreed to meet. But when I arrived, it was a disaster.”

“A disaster I remain grateful for,” Phillip said.

“A disaster I still suspect you orchestrated to lure me,” Eloise teased.

Phillip only shrugged. “I’ll never tell.”

“The hotel was overbooked. Every hotel was. Family weekend, another convention—nothing within twenty minutes. I called Phillip in a panic, and he offered his guestroom. I had no choice. When I arrived—”

“My twins were waiting,” Phillip finished. “Oliver had ten questions before she crossed the threshold, and Amanda wanted her entire life story.”

“I didn’t know he had children,” Eloise admitted. “And nearly left the moment I found out.”

Phillip’s voice gentled. “There’s no easy way to mention such things in an academic debate. My late-wife died when the twins were two. That loss…” His eyes flicked to Violet. “…I understood when Eloise spoke of losing her father young.”

Violet’s breath caught, her hand tightening in her lap before instinctively seeking Marcus’s. He covered it without hesitation, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles over her knuckles. The simple weight of it grounded her, even as the grief in Phillip’s voice tugged at something long-buried in her own chest.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said sincerely, her voice a touch softer than before.

“I thought I’d already had my love story,” Phillip replied plainly.  

“And I didn’t want one,” Eloise added. “So naturally, here we are.”

Violet tilted her head, her expression soft but keen. “But what made you stay?”

Eloise opened her mouth, then shut it again, as if the answer might incriminate her. Finally, she huffed. “Amanda made me tea. Properly. None of that over-steeped nonsense Anthony drinks. And Oliver wanted to show me his bug collection. I couldn’t very well be rude to children.”

“You?” Colin asked, wide-eyed. “Not rude? Now that is a love story.”

Eloise shot him a glare before continuing. “It was supposed to be one night, maybe two. Just until hotel availability opened up. But then Amanda wanted help with her book report, and Oliver wanted me to settle a debate about whether ants or bees were more useful, and—”

“She was hooked,” Phillip said simply, his eyes warming as they lingered on her. “The twins adored her from the start.”

Eloise scoffed, cheeks pink. “Hardly. They interrogated me.”

Phillip’s smile deepened. “Exactly. And you answered every question.”

Kate, who had been quiet until then, leaned forward with a knowing look. “So you stayed.”

Eloise shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, someone had to prevent Phillip from boring them to death with Latin plant names. He was likely filling their heads with that same marigold nonsense, for crying out loud.  Anyway, one night became three, then five. And by the time I finally left…well, leaving felt rather inconvenient.”

Phillip’s eyes found Eloise’s, his gaze holding hers long enough to quiet the faintest tremor in her voice. “By the time she left, we all knew she’d be back.  Even though she did tell me several times that she was not looking for a relationship, and if, on the off chance she agreed to one, it would certainly not end in marriage.”

“I thought I was managing your expectations, and all the while, you were rewiring mine.” 

Colin leaned forward, grinning widely.  “Obviously, you kept going back.  But Gloucestershire isn’t exactly around the corner.” 

Eloise crossed her arms.  “I happen to enjoy trains.  Uninterrupted time to write was an added bonus.” 

“You were not traveling cross country for the thrill of delayed schedules,” Francesca said smirking.  “You were smitten.” 

“I was smitten,” Eloise admitted, her cheeks warming. “But admitting it to myself was the hardest part. Which is ridiculous, really—I’ve written entire exposés on government incompetence but couldn’t manage four words: I am in love.”

Phillip’s mouth curved in the softest smile, the kind that made his eyes crease at the corners.  “I knew she’d find them eventually.  Eloise often isn’t at a lack of words for long.” 

“Or ever,” Benedict teased. 

“We moved from emails to video calls.  Mostly about school projects, at first.  Amanda insisted on showing Eloise every draft of her essays, Oliver brought her along for every science experiment.  But soon, it didn’t feel like quite enough for any of us.”  Beside her, his knee brushed hers, a quiet anchor as he went on. “It wasn’t grand gestures. Just…life.” 

“That,” Penelope said softly, “sounds very much like love.”

Eloise groaned. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Daphne folded her arms. “So let me get this straight—you go from essays and science experiments to…marriage? There’s a missing chapter here.”

“There is,” Eloise admitted, chin tipped high. “Because one evening, I realized I didn’t want to leave. Not just Gloucestershire, not just the children—I didn’t want to leave him.”

A pause prickled with expectation.

“So I asked him to marry me,” Eloise said simply.

“You what?” Gregory nearly toppled off the arm of his chair.

“I proposed,” she clarified, perfectly matter-of-fact. “Why should I wait around for Phillip to do it when I knew exactly what I wanted? It wasn’t a question of whether he wanted me. I already knew that. It was only a question of whether I was brave enough to say it out loud.”

The room broke into stunned laughter—Benedict clapped, Colin doubled over, and even Anthony looked grudgingly impressed.

Phillip cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Obviously, I said yes.  I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life being proved wrong by her after she sent me a presentation on why the oxford comma is non-negotiable.”

“It was only twelve slides,” Eloise countered primly, though her lips curved. “I’m forwarding it to all of you later.  The grammar in the group chat has gotten out of hand” 

Phillip looked at her then—soft, unshaken by the laughter around them. “But I wasn’t going to rush her.  I wanted Eloise to be ready in her own time, and I was more than content to wait.  And when she was ready…she didn’t exactly whisper it.” 

Benedict barked a laugh. “Of course she didn’t.” 

“Then,” Eloise added, her voice catching despite herself, “a week later, I found myself proposed to all over again.” 

“By my children,” Phillip supplied. “I maintain, I had nothing to do with it, and it was their idea entirely.” 

“They cornered me in the kitchen,” Eloise admitted, cheeks pink.  “And asked if I’d adopt them.  Officially.  I was ambushed, truly.  Two tiny conspirators with big eyes and impossible timing.” 

Her voice wavered; she pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to cover. “So I said yes. Of course I said yes.”

“Is Eloise…crying?” Hyacinth mused.

“I’m not crying,” Eloise insisted, straightening, chin ripped high.  “My eyes are watering.  There is a difference.” 

A soft ripple of laughter circled the room.  Violet only sipped her tea, giving Eloise the grace of silence.  Phillip’s thumb brushed her knuckles, grounding, steady.  

Eloise sniffed once, lifted her chin higher.  “Mother, interrogate someone else while I track down a handkerchief.  Even hardened criminals are allowed breaks during questioning.” 

She rose, sweeping from the room with dignity intact, leaving a faint hush in her wake.

The moment the door shut, Violet’s gaze pivoted like clockwork. “Well then,” she said crisply, “since Eloise has invoked her recess, perhaps Benedict might explain this art program?”

Benedict leaned back, unbothered, ankle crossed over his knee. “Gladly. Though I daresay my tale will be far less dramatic than a secret marriage.”

“It had better be,” Sophie teased.

He launched into an explanation—his love of teaching, the struggle to better himself as an artist, the drawing shown in last year’s exhibition, the invitation to apply. He admitted he’d nearly turned it down until Sophie encouraged him to follow his dreams.

Marcus, quiet until now, leaned forward with a thoughtful hum. “Sounds to me like the only ridiculous part would’ve been saying no.” His tone was mild, but approving—weight without intrusion.

Benedict’s grin widened, visibly buoyed. “Thank you.”

The family listened with varying degrees of attention—Colin distracted by Penelope’s hand brushing his; Hyacinth whispering suggested improvements; Gregory muttering “starving artist” until Daphne silenced him with a look.

The door creaked open then, and Eloise reappeared, handkerchief in hand but composure neatly restored. “Carry on, Ben,” she said with a breezy wave as gazes rested back to her. “I wouldn’t dream of stealing your thunder twice in one night.”

“Generous of you,” Benedict drawled, though his smile gave him away. He continued without missing a beat, outlining his plans and the courage it had taken to say yes.

Still, Violet’s expression softened, pride unmistakable. “You’ve thought this through, my dear. I only wish you had told me sooner. I didn’t even know you were drawing seriously.”

Benedict shrugged. “I was worried you’d all see it as just a hobby.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Anthony said, firm and genuine. “And I mean to be at the next show.”

A chorus of “me as well” followed, Sophie squeezing Benedict’s hand. “See? I told you.”

“You were right,” he murmured back, his smile full and unguarded. His gaze slid toward Eloise, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I think we can all agree my little announcement hardly compares to our sister’s secret marriage and instant parenthood. Care to finish your tale, El?”

Eloise sighed at the thought of being thrust back into the interrogation chair, but straightened. “The important thing to remember is that we’re happy, and we did it on our terms. No one else’s.” She paused, taking stock of the life that was now hers. “Once all the formalities were out of the way, I didn’t see the point in waiting. I’ve never been one for big weddings. We went to the registry office and made it official.”

“And when,” Violet asked, “was that exactly?”

“September 15th,” Eloise replied quietly.

“That’s impossible,” Daphne said. “We were all together on Mother’s birthday, the 29th.”

“You were at that party,” Colin added.

Eloise closed her eyes, bracing. “And…I might have already been Eloise Bridgerton-Crane by then.”

“You took his name?” Anthony sounded nearly as scandalized as when she’d announced the marriage.

“It’s hyphenated,” Eloise shot back, playful. “Which is exactly why we didn’t tell you. None of this was what I expected for myself.  At the beginning, I just needed space to figure it out—without your commentary, without the standards I’d set for myself. Once I did…it all moved very fast.”

Phillip squeezed her hand, steady.

“At that point,” Eloise went on, “we thought it easier to keep things quiet. The plan was to let you meet Phillip, then the twins, then reveal the marriage later…somewhere down the road.”

“And when exactly would that have been?” Violet pressed.

“I don’t know,” Eloise admitted. “Preferably not during dinner, courtesy of my nephew’s hoarding tendencies.”

“Well.” Violet exhaled. “This has all been very…enlightening. Is there anything else we need to know?”

“We also have a cat,” Phillip offered meekly. “Just for the sake of transparency.”

“A cat?” Francesca asked.

“Dennis,” Eloise supplied.

“The twins named him,” Phillip added quickly.

A beat of silence—then Gregory burst out laughing. “Dennis the cat. Truly strikes terror.”

Laughter broke over the room, easing the last of the tension. Even Anthony, still reeling over the hyphenated name, let out a reluctant chuckle.

Violet waited until the noise ebbed. “Well. A husband, two children, and a cat named Dennis. Quite the life you’ve built, Eloise. Not at all what I imagined, but perhaps better.  And I am glad you are happy.” 

Eloise shifted closer to her husband, his arm instinctively wrapping around her shoulders as he held her.  Her lips twitched, dangerously close to gratitude. “We are.”

For a moment, the family sat in a rare hush. Then Hyacinth leaned forward, mischief rekindled. “Well, since Eloise’s scandal has been thoroughly documented, shall we circle back to Francesca running off to Scotland?”

The room erupted again—chatter bouncing in every direction—but the air was softer now, stitched with new understanding. 

Chapter Text

The corridors of Aubrey Hall were hushed; the raucous echoes of the sitting room had finally faded. Eloise padded toward her room, still feeling the weight of so many eyes and so many words. She had expected to feel cornered, exposed—yet instead there was an odd, tentative lightness in her chest.

Phillip stepped out of the bathroom, hair askew from his shower and a few stray drops darkening his pajama shirt. “I thought that went fairly well,” he said, pulling the blankets down on his side of the bed. “Not a single one of your brothers threatened to punch me.”

“I daresay they were shocked into submission,” Eloise replied, moving to the dresser to set aside her jewelry.

“And your mother?” Phillip asked, a small hesitation in his voice. He knew that their news would be hardest on Violet.

“Will recover,” Eloise finished. “Eventually. Probably the moment she meets Amanda and Oliver.”

He smiled and crossed the room to her. “How does it feel to have the whole world know you are Eloise Bridgerton–Crane?” he asked as he pulled her into his arms and his fingers found her waist.

“It’s hardly the whole world—just my family.”

“I’ve spent the last year and a half hearing you talk about your family, Eloise. I know they can be tiresome and overwhelming, but I also know how much you love them. They are a large part of your world.”

She brought her hands to his jaw. “Not my whole world though. Not anymore.”

“I am proud of you,” Phillip said, forehead resting against hers.

“Oh, must you?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head, refusing to let it land.

“Oh, I absolutely must.” He sounded sincere. “You were remarkable tonight. You faced them all and you did not falter. You made it clear you chose this life. You chose me. And I know you don’t always allow yourself to believe it, but you make me proud.”

For once Eloise was quiet. Her throat tightened in a way that felt more like relief than fear. She leaned into him; his steadiness was the counterpoint she’d needed.

“Don’t tell the others,” she whispered at last, a mischievous gleam at the corner of her mouth. “But I am very glad I married you.”

Phillip smiled into her hair. “Your secret is safe with me.”

***

Anthony and Kate readied for bed in the quiet that follows a storm.

“Doesn’t it feel nice,” Kate said as she smoothed the covers, “to have our secret out in the open? To know our child is already so loved by everyone?”

“It does,” Anthony admitted, sliding in beside her. He was quiet for a beat, then added with dry precision, “Although, for a household so intent on order, I’m still baffled. Whose test did we claim today?”

Kate gave him a pointed look.

“I know it wasn’t yours,” he continued.

“If you must know,” Kate sighed. “It was Daphne’s. She wasn’t ready, and I…well, I did what I always do. Saved the day.”

Anthony huffed a laugh. “So very noble of you.”

“I quite agree,” Kate said, reaching for her phone. She tapped the screen, then turned it toward him. “I wanted to show you something.”

Anthony shifted closer, shoulder brushing hers. On the screen was a baby with dark curls, enormous brown eyes, and pursed lips that already looked ready to argue her case.

“That’s you?” he asked softly.

“I asked Mary to send me some of my baby pictures,” she explained. “So we could compare. What do you think?”

Anthony swallowed, still staring at the little face. “I think, if this baby is a girl, I am doomed.”

Kate laughed quietly, genuine and unguarded. “That might be the understatement of the year.”

The sound faded into comfortable silence, Anthony still studying the tiny image. The ease of having nothing left to hide settled around them like a blanket.

“I’ve been thinking about something else,” Kate said after a moment, hesitant.

“What’s that?” Anthony hummed.

“Names.” She glanced at him. “Have you thought about them?”

He shook his head. “I’ll admit, until last night, I was doing everything I could not to let myself hope too much.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Kate pressed on. “And if it’s a boy…I think we should name him Edmund.”

“Kate—”

“If you’re about to ask if I’m sure, I am. Always. I’ve been looking at those family pictures all week, and I see so much of you in your father. I know what he meant to you.”

Anthony’s throat worked. “Edmund is…a very big name for such a little baby.”

“We’ll find a nickname. Eddie, perhaps.”

There was a long pause before Anthony said quietly, almost to himself, “Neddy.”

Kate tilted her head. “Neddy?”

“It’s what my father used to call me.”

Her smile was soft, certain. “Well then, it’s settled.”

***

The fire in their room radiated a warmth that Francesca would always associate with home, its soft glow soft and amber against the walls. Francesca sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the pins holding her hair in place one by one, each metallic clink falling into the small porcelain dish on the nightstand. John watched her from the closet as he removed his coat and started to unbutton his shirt.

“Well,” he said at last, his tone dry but not unkind. “Your family never disappoints in the matter of theatrics.”

Francesca let out a quiet laugh, the sound muffled by her exhaustion. “You were warned.”

“I was warned,” John agreed, crossing the room to join her. “Still. It does always surprise me just the slightest.”

Francesca tilted her head, catching his reflection in the mirror. “And does it make you reconsider your decision to marry into this chaos?”

He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Not for a moment,” he answered genuinely.

She smiled, softer now, reaching up to cover his hand where it rested on her arm. “It makes me look forward to Scotland all the more,” she replied.

“You will miss your family,” John stated. It wasn’t a question or an accusation, merely an observation.

Francesca nodded. “Of course I will, but we need…space from all of this. I’ve never thrived in the loud and chaos like the rest of my siblings seemingly do. And I like the idea of the two of us building something that suits us both. Together.”

John’s reflection met hers in the mirror, eyes steady and knowing. “You didn’t tell them everything, though.”

She hesitated, her thumb tracing idle circles over his hand.
“I told her we were moving to be closer to your family. That wasn’t a lie.”

“No,” he said softly, “but it’s also not the only reason we’re moving.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “No, it isn’t. But the record deal could still fall through.”

He squeezed her hand. “It could. But knowing you, it won’t.”

Francesca exhaled, the smallest laugh escaping her. “Well, I suppose we’ll keep one secret just a little longer.”

John smiled, brushing his thumb along her wrist. “Then for now, let’s just focus on building something that’s ours.”

Francesca turned, meeting his eyes not in the glass but face to face, her smile quiet but sure.
“Ours,” she agreed.

Chapter Text

The pale winter light filtered through the curtains, thin and silvery, casting soft stripes across the bed.  The house was already stirring faintly—footsteps in the hall, the distant creak of floorboards—but within their room, it was still. 

Daphne lay half-curled on her side, her hand resting against the steady rise and fall of Simon’s chest.  He had been awake for some time, though he hadn’t moved, content to trace idle patterns against her shoulder as her breathing shifted from sleep to waking. 

When her eyes finally opened, hazy and soft, Simon pressed a kiss to her hair.  “Good morning,” he murmured. 

She made a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh.  “Is it?”

He studied her profile.  “Depends, I suppose.  Do you want to talk about it?”

Daphne stilled.  Her fingers curled against his shirt, as though bracing herself.  “I’m not sure what to say.” 

“Just say what you feel,” Simon said gently.  “No one else is listening.” 

Daphne chuckled, “I’m not so sure about that.  I think after all the secrets revealed last night Mother is going to look at bugging the rooms so she’s never caught off-guard again.” 

Simon laughed with her, low and rough as his voice still warmed.

The silence filled the space between them once more.  Daphne fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.  Her throat working before she whispered.  “I feel terrified.  And a little foolish, because I wanted this—I wanted another child.  But now that it’s here…” she shook her head unable to finish.  

Simon shifted, turning her to face him fully.  “You are not foolish,” he said firmly.  “Wanting something does not make you weak.  And being afraid does not make you ungrateful.  It only makes you human.” 

Her eyes glistened, and she gave a watery laugh.  “You’re rather wise for this hour of the morning.” 

“I’ll collapse from exhaustion in the next five minutes,” he teased softly, brushing his thumb along her cheek.  “But for now—Daphne, whatever happens, it’s not yours to bear alone.  It’s ours now.” 

Something in her seemed to break and steady all at once.  “Then I think I can do it,” she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.  “Because I’ll have you.” 

***

Anthony hummed to himself as he walked down the corridor, towel over his shoulder, toiletry bag swinging from his hand.

He was nearly skipping, that’s how light he felt. He had a wife he adored—and, miracle of miracles, she adored him back even when he was impossible. They had a child on the way, a piece of both of them. Even Newton, menace though he was, felt like part of their little family.

Nothing, nothing was going to spoil his mood this morning.

Which was why, when he found the bathroom door locked, he only leaned against the wall to wait, whistling under his breath. He could wait.

After a few minutes, the latch clicked. Steam curled into the hallway as Colin emerged, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Ah,” Colin said, all cheer. “Good morning, brother.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. Something about the smugness prickled. He opened his mouth to reply—

And then Penelope stepped out behind him.

Anthony froze, his mouth still hanging open.  He blinked as if that would clear the fog. His brain, so sharp in every other arena, short-circuited completely.

“Wh—”

“The water pressure here is quite excellent, isn’t it?” Penelope observed, as though commenting on the weather. 

Anthony opened his mouth. Closed it. No sound came out.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Colin said, clapping Anthony on the back before sliding an arm around Penelope’s waist and leading her back to their room. 

Anthony managed one strangled word: “Rules.”

Colin glanced back with the same infuriating grin Anthony had given him days ago. “What was that, brother?” And then he bent to kiss Penelope soundly, without the faintest concern who saw.

Anthony stood rooted to the spot, towel slipping from his shoulder, feeling for all the world as though he had just been bested at his own game.

Chapter Text

The morning of their departure, the breakfast table was in constant flux, an ever-changing combination of occupants. The buffet stretched in an orderly line of fresh fruit, breads, and smoked meats, their fragrances mingling with the wood smoke curling from the fireplace. Outside, a steady drip echoed as snow melted from the gutters above the wide picture window. The towering piles that had stood immovable for days were finally retreating beneath the full glare of the sun.

“I cannot believe you drew all these,” Violet was saying as Eloise walked in to find her mother and Benedict seated side by side, his sketchbook spread open between them, two neglected cups of tea cooling at their elbows.

“I should have told you sooner,” Benedict admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I needed to learn it was all right to take my art seriously. Sophie helped me with that.”

Eloise slipped past, angling for the coffee urn and perhaps a banana, hoping to escape unnoticed.

Violet patted Benedict’s hand with a warm smile. “Sophie deserves a raise.”

“Undeniably,” Benedict agreed, laughter softening his voice.

Eloise had nearly reached the door, caffeine secured, when her mother’s voice cut through.

“Not so fast.”

Eloise paused mid-step, Violet’s gaze pinning her in place. One look was enough to know resistance was useless. With a sigh, she retraced her steps.

Benedict rose smoothly, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek as he collected his sketchbook. “I just remembered—I promised to, ah, discuss Sophie’s raise with her.”

Eloise shot him a withering look as she sank into his vacated chair. He only smirked, murmuring, “Good luck, sister,” on his way out.

Eloise wrapped both hands around her mug like a shield, steam curling upward before vanishing into the air. Each time the band of her ring clicked against the handle, the sound seemed to echo in her ears. “If this is about last night—”

“It is,” Violet interrupted—not sharply, but steadily. “Of course it is.” She studied her daughter for a long moment, eyes kind but searching. “You stood before us all and told a truth you had no guarantee we would accept. I know how much courage that required.”

Eloise shifted in her seat, uncomfortable beneath the weight of such words. “Well. It was bound to come out eventually. Better sooner than later.”

Violet reached across the table, her hand warm and steady as it settled over Eloise’s. “Do not pretend it was nothing. I may not have chosen the way you did things, but I recognize what it was. Brave. Stubborn.” A smile tugged at her mouth as she squeezed Eloise’s fingers lightly. “Exactly as you have always been.”

Eloise blinked, throat tightening. “You’re…not angry?”

Violet shook her head. “Only disappointed you did not think you could share it with us sooner. But I will do better to show you my support without suffocating you.”

That earned a small nod from Eloise, who took refuge in her coffee, swallowing against the unexpected lump in her throat. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you before last night.”

“I wish I could have been there—for all of it. But the important thing is that you are happy. Undeniably so. That much I have witnessed this week.” Violet’s sigh was fond, tinged with pride. “The only conclusion I can reach is that I should not have expected anything different from you. You have always forged your own path—sometimes forced it into being—and I should have known love would be no exception. You and Phillip have all my love and support. And though you hardly need my blessing, you have it as well.”

Tears pricked at Eloise’s eyes, but she swallowed them back. “Thank you, Mother. That…means a great deal.”

Violet’s own eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Now. I have set aside a few weeks at the end of the month. I would love to come visit. I won’t impose—I’ve already looked at hotels—but I should like to meet Amanda and Oliver properly, and spend time with Phillip too.”

“You will stay with us, of course,” Eloise said at once. “We would love that. And Amanda and Oliver…they would adore it.”

“Good,” Violet said softly. Then, after a beat, “Might you have a picture of my newest grandchildren?”

A smile broke across Eloise’s face. “I have a few.” She pulled her phone from her pocket.

“Only a few?” Violet teased.

“Fine. More than a few.” Eloise unlocked the screen and handed it over, the home screen a photo of her, Phillip, Oliver, and Amanda, all crammed into the frame with wide, unguarded smiles. “That was the day the twins proposed.”

Violet’s thumb brushed tenderly over the image. “Oh, Eloise.” Her eyes filled again. “They are simply lovely. No wonder you are so smitten.”

“I never expected it,” Eloise admitted. “Any of it. But I am happy. Content in a way I never dreamed possible.”

“I have often found that what we truly need finds us—if we allow it.”

Eloise swiped to another photo, one Phillip’s mother had sent earlier in the week: the twins grinning triumphantly over a mound of ice cream.

“Oh dear,” Violet chuckled. “You do know I intend to spoil them shamelessly?”

“Having seen you with August, I could have guessed as much,” Eloise said. She would not admit aloud how much she was looking forward to it.

"We'll arrive late tonight," Eloise finally mentioned. "But…perhaps we could call you tomorrow? You could speak with them—hear their ridiculous stories for yourself."

"I would very much enjoy that," Violet admitted. A beat later, she added, "I would also very much enjoy throwing a party, a marriage celebration, for you and Phillip."

Eloise opened her mouth to protest, but Violet pressed on. "You would have full control over the guest list—even if it is only family. But if you are truly opposed, I won’t smother you."

"A small celebration would be appreciated, I think," Eloise amended. "It would give you the opportunity to meet Phillip’s mother. Also, you should know, Phillip really likes your towels."

"My towels?" Violet laughed.

"He’s a man of simple taste."

"He married you, Eloise," Violet countered. "I’d say his taste is anything but simple. I’ll bring a box of them for him when I come to stay."

Eloise hummed in agreement.

Violet handed the phone back, her fingers brushing Eloise’s in passing. "I look forward to knowing them," she said softly, before pressing a kiss to Eloise’s head. "I love you so much, dear. Don’t ever doubt it."

Eloise leaned into her mother’s embrace, then stood, mug in hand.  She had taken two steps before she paused, turning back, something nagging at her that she couldn’t leave unspoken. 

“You said I was brave.” Eloise ran her thumb over the mug’s handle, words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. “It didn’t feel brave—it felt like leaping without knowing if the ground would catch me. But I realized, even if I landed badly, Phillip would be there. The twins would be there. And all of you, eventually. That’s what made it possible.

“You and Marcus seem happy,” she added, her eyes steady on Violet’s. “If you wanted to…you could leap too.”

With that, she left the room, the echo of her words lingering on Violet’s ears long after her footsteps faded.