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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.