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Gregory stood before the oval mirror in his bathroom at Bridgerton House, the pale morning light slanting in through the tall sash windows and catching on the porcelain basin. The room smelled faintly of soap and lavender, a familiar scent that did little to settle his nerves.
His mother had insisted upon a barber, a proper one, she’d said, and now Gregory leaned forward over the basin, doing his utmost not to fidget beneath the strangers’ practiced hands. The razor glinted as it was wiped clean, and Gregory swallowed.
It was a strange thing, to imagine his jaw smooth and bare. A mark of manhood, a threshold crossed. And yet the thought brought him no pride, only a quiet, hollow ache.
Anthony was thousands of miles away in India, newly a father. Colin was across the street, pen scratching endlessly over paper. Benedict was at his bachelor’s house, living a freedom Gregory could scarcely comprehend.
And Gregory was here.
Born into a family of men, yet somehow always just behind them, too young, too late, always catching up to lives already in motion. Eton loomed before him, the next grand step into gentlemanhood, and yet he felt ill-equipped to take it. There was no father to guide him, no steady presence to say this is how it is done. And now, even his brothers seemed scattered to the winds.
“Careful, Master Gregory,” the barber murmured, mistaking his flinch for nerves.
Gregory forced a polite smile, though the tightness in his chest remained. He studied his reflection, the boy soon to be scraped away by steel.
He had just finished dabbing away the last of the shaving foam when the door creaked open.
“Sophie—? Have you seen her?” Benedict’s voice echoed cheerfully as he poked his head inside, peering about as though the maid might be concealed behind the towels.
Gregory blinked, soap still clinging to his fingers. “Sophie? No,” he said, then tilted his head. “And why, exactly, are you looking for her?”
Benedict flushed ever so slightly. “Oh. No reason,” He wandered fully into the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I must say…watching my baby brother shave for the first time, well, it nearly brings a tear to my eye. Little Gregory, all grown up.”
Gregory huffed out a small, reluctant laugh. “It’s…my first time.”
“Oh, a rite of passage!” Benedict’s grin widened. “Soon you’ll wield a razor like a sword, and the ladies will swoon—” He stopped short, studying Gregory more carefully. “But that’s not it, is it? You’re not nervous. You’re…sad.”
Gregory looked down at the basin. “I just—I feel alone in this, Ben. In manhood. I’m about to go to Eton, to become a proper gentleman, and I have no father to teach me how. Half my brothers are gone, and the one who is here seems rather… distracted by ladies in silver and other people’s housemaids—”
“Alright, alright,” Benedict cut in quickly, his teasing dissolving into something gentler. He leaned against the doorframe, concern flickering behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. Truly. I suppose I forget sometimes what it must feel like, being the youngest. To be a Bridgerton is to grow up surrounded by giants…and to feel very small in their shadows.”
Gregory’s shoulders slumped. “I want to be like them. Confident. Certain. But I always feel as though I’m falling behind.”
“No one ever feels ready, Gregory. We simply pretend, and hope no one notices,” He leaned closer with a conspirational wink. “If it helps, I have been pretending for years.”
Gregory didn’t look much cheered.
Benedict exhaled slowly. “You know…I often feel the same. Anthony, always achieving, and now with an heir, little Edmund. And Colin…” He scoffed. “Even my baby brother has married, produced an heir, published novels, and secured a title for his child. The audacity of it all,” He threw up his hands, pacing. “Honestly, Gregory, Mother will never let me forget it—”
Gregory blinked, lips twitching. “Er…I fear this pep talk may have wandered somewhat.”
Benedict froze, then laughed sheepishly. “Perhaps. But the lesson stands. Manhood, brother, is not merely measured by others’ triumphs.
He reached for the shaving foam. “And today, brother, we survive your first shave.”
He patted foam onto Gregory’s chin with exaggerated care. “Patience. Steady hands. And above all…well, trust in your older brother.”
Gregory chuckled nervously as Benedict guided his hand, the razor gliding more smoothly now. “Hold still, Greg. If you lose an ear, Mother shall have my head.”
The bathroom door opened again.
“Elliot! Oh, oh no,” Colin said faintly. “Penelope is going to murder me.”
Benedict straightened, smug. “See? Even the finest Bridgerton’s are not immune to foolishness. So we needn’t compare ourselves.”
Colin blinked. “Is this Gregory’s first shave? Why was I not informed? I can’t believe I missed this!”
“It’s hardly a gala,” Gregory said, though he smiled.
“Hardly?” Colin protested. “Gregory, this is a big deal! I cannot wait to teach my little Elliot to shave. And how to eat ten biscuits without feeling ill. Essential knowledge.”
Gregory’s smile faded. “You were fortunate,” he said quietly, “that Father could teach you these things.”
Colin sobered at once. He moved closer. “Father never taught me either.”
“He didn’t?”
Colin shook his head. “No. Father had…passed by then. So Anthony took it upon himself. There were a lot of tears and bloodshed. Mostly mine, mostly from nicks and scrapes, a little from Anthony laughing at me. Very educational.”
Gregory couldn’t help but chuckle despite the ache in his chest.
Benedict, leaning against the sink, smirked. “Let’s all just be grateful he remains in India.”
“I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” Colin said. “My face looked like it had been attacked by a hedgehog, but I think Anthony was secretly proud of every nick and cut. You survive. You learn. You laugh. And one day, you get to teach the next poor Bridgerton.”
Benedict frowned. “Speaking of which, why were you panicking earlier?”
Colin froze. “Oh. Yes. I may have…lost my baby.”
“You lost your baby?”
“Elliot has learned to crawl, and he is a little terror! He could be anywhere!” Colin began searching frantically, peeking behind towels, under the sink, even lifting the rug. “I am sure Penelope will be remarkably calm about this. Eventually.”
“You have lost a human child. Truly astonishing even by Bridgerton standards.”
“He is very small! And surprisingly fast!”
Gregory leaned against the counter, trying not to laugh. “Colin, calm down. He’s crawling, not vanished into thin air.”
Benedict laughed, shaking his head. “Honestly, watching you panic is almost as entertaining as seeing Greg try not to stab himself with a razor.”
Colin was crouched by the sink, peering nervously into the basin, when he accidentally knocked shaving cream from the deluge in the sink, flicking it straight into Benedict’s face.
Benedict froze, mouth gaping. “You—”
Colin scrambled back, hands raised. “That was an accident.”
Benedict wiped cream from his eyes, glaring playfully. “Accident, you say?” With lightning reflexes, he grabbed a handful of foam and hurled it straight at Colin.
“My waistcoat!” Colin cried. “It’s new!”
“Oh, hush,” Benedict smirked. “You’re such a Featherington.”
That was all the invitation Gregory needed. He scooped up some cream from the basin and lobbed it at Benedict, who ducked, sending it flying across the room and landing with a splat on Colin’s head.
“Gregory!” he exclaimed. “You traitor—”
“If I am to be a man, I must defend myself!”
And just like that, the bathroom erupted. Shaving cream flew everywhere, on the counters, the mirrors, the floor, and, inevitably, all three of them. The barber quietly left the danger zone.
Colin shrieked, flailing to dodge another glob, while Gregory laughed so hard he almost fell slipped. Benedict retaliated with precision, flinging foam at Colin like a seasoned general.
“You’ll regret this!” Colin shouted, scooping another handful and smearing it across Benedict’s shoulder. Gregory ducked as a particularly vicious glob sailed past him.
“Eat this!” he shouted, laughing.
“Don’t give him such an invitation, brother!” Benedict laughed. “You know he’ll eat anything.”
For a few glorious minutes, there was no loneliness, just the three of them, ridiculous, messy, and completely alive.
The chaos came to an abrupt halt when a high-pitched squeal pierced the air. All three froze and looked down together.
There, in the middle of the tiled floor, was Elliot. Every inch of him was thickly coated in shaving cream.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then, Benedict and Gregory burst into laughter as Colin reached out, embracing his child. “Oh—Elliot! Look at you…”
Benedict, still rubbing foam from his hair, peered down. “You may still survive Penelope’s wrath, brother. He’s so coated you cannot even tell for certain that he’s a baby.”
Colin laughed quietly, shaken and fond all at once. “I was just thinking,” he said, “that one day he’ll be standing where Gregory is now. And I’ll be trying to explain razors and soap and why one must never rush these things. And I shall absolutely make a mess of it.”
Benedict snorted. “Oh, undoubtedly. Possibly worse than Anthony.”
Gregory smiled as he watched Colin carefully wipe the cream from his son’s cheeks with his sleeve. “I’ll be there,” Colin said quietly, pressing a kiss to Elliot’s forehead. “Every nick, every panic. I’ll be there for all of it.”
Benedict leaned back against the counter, shaking his head. “Heaven help the boy.”
Gregory laughed softly, warmth settling in his chest. Family was not instruction delivered perfectly. It was presence. It was staying.
The bathroom door burst open.
Violet Bridgerton took in the scene in a single, sharp breath.
Shaving cream coated the mirror. The counter. The floor. One of her sons, she would identify which later, appeared to be dripping. Another was half-bent with a child in his arms who looked as though he had been dipped into a confectioner’s bowl.
There was a pause. Then: “I should very much like an explanation.”
Benedict straightened at once. “Mother, I can explain.”
“I do hope so,” Violet replied coolly, folding her hands together. “Because at present it appears Gregory’s bathroom has been the site of a duel. With soap.”
Penelope was at Colin’s side in an instant, her expression caught somewhere between alarm and fond resignation. “Colin Bridgerton,” she said, reaching up to wipe a smear of shaving cream from Elliot’s curls, “what have you done now?”
“We shall need to clean him before he attempts to eat the soap,” Colin said earnestly, adjusting his hold on their son. “If he takes after me at all, I fear there is very little he will not attempt to consume.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Well, our son has certainly inherited the Bridgertons’ penchant for chaos.”
Colin glanced down at Elliot, then back at Penelope, his expression softening. “I promise,” he said quietly, “to teach him which things are for eating…and which are for making a dreadful mess.”
Penelope laughed, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
Eloise surveyed the room with open fascination. “Men are astonishing creatures.”
“Eloise,” Violet warned.
Gregory, still perched near the basin, felt suddenly very aware of his half-shaven jaw and cream-splattered sleeves. He opened his mouth, prepared to apologise, but Violet’s attention had already shifted.
She was looking at him.
Not at the mess. Not at the foam. At Gregory.
Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. She looked from one son to the next, at Benedict’s protective stance, at Colin’s arm curled securely around his child, at Gregory, standing taller than he had when the morning began.
Her shoulders eased.
“Well,” she said quietly, “I should hope that, of all families, ours would know how to remind one another that no one steps into adulthood alone.”
She crossed the room and reached out, brushing a lingering smear of cream from Gregory’s cheek with her thumb. “Your brothers may be imperfect teachers,” she added, glancing pointedly at Benedict, “but they are yours.”
Gregory swallowed. “I felt…lighter,” he admitted. “After.”
Violet smiled then, full and radiant and proud. “That is all that matters.”
Benedict exhaled in relief. “So…we are not in trouble?”
Violet eyed the mirror again. “You are all cleaning.”
Colin nodded immediately. “Happily.”
Benedict shrugged. “Worth it.”
Violet paused at the door, turning back once more. “Gregory,” she said, “you make a very handsome gentleman, indeed. Even smeared in soap.”
Gregory’s chest tightened, but this time, it did not hurt.
And as laughter bubbled up again, quieter now, gentler, Violet allowed herself a small smile.
Chaos, she reflected, was sometimes simply love in disguise.