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Violet Bridgerton considered herself a fairly patient, even-tempered matriarch.
She had raised eight children, after all. Eight children whom she loved dearly and would do anything for, but eight children who, each in their own inventive way, had tested the limits of her composure and forced her to reconsider the very truths upon which she had built her household.
On an almost daily basis.
So yes, Violet considered herself patient.
Which was why she gave Anthony and Kate exactly one week after their letter arrived announcing their safe return from India and their intention to rest quietly at Aubrey Hall.
Seven days.
Seven days in which she did not descend upon them with questions.
Seven days in which she did not demand to know how the journey had treated them.
Seven days in which she most certainly did not picture, with startling clarity, the face of the child who bore her husband’s name.
On the morning of the eighth day, Violet rang for her maid and requested that her traveling cloak be brought down from storage. She had the footman ready the carriage, and off she set on the day’s journey to Kent.
She spent the journey in a state of determined composure, hands folded in her lap while her thoughts ran far ahead to Aubrey Hall.
“Lady Bridgerton,” the butler began, bowing.
“Thank you, Morris,” Violet said, already removing her gloves. “You are looking well.”
“I shall inform the Viscount and Viscountess—”
But Kate was already in the doorway, breathless and smiling.
“I think I can take it from here,” she interrupted. “Thank you, Morris.”
The butler bowed again, taking his leave, and Violet wrapped Kate in a warm embrace.
“I am sorry to have arrived unexpectedly.”
Kate just smiled. “Honestly, Anthony and I expected you to arrive days ago. He owes me twenty pounds now.”
Violet’s hand tightened slightly on her arm.
“Come,” Kate said gently. “I imagine you’re here for one person in particular.”
Kate led her to the sitting room. The smell of tea and cakes being placed filled the air, and the sound of a child’s laughter lingered faintly in the hall.
Violet’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of her son sitting on the floor with a small boy of about a year perched on his lap. The pair were playing some sort of game involving a toy horse, a few blocks, and a small rattle.
For one perfect moment, the world narrowed to that small, perfect child.
“Mother,” Anthony said, scooping Edmund into his arms as he rose to his feet.
Violet wasn’t sure if he said anything else. She swept across the room with a single purpose, forgetting all rules of decorum or polite society.
“Oh,” she breathed as she placed a hand on the child’s soft curls. “Oh, my sweet Edmund.”
She held out her arms, and the child looked back at his father for the briefest of moments before surrendering fully to his grandmother.
“Hello, Mother,” Anthony mumbled. “Remember me? Your first born?”
But Violet paid him little attention. She was far too taken with the small boy now settled securely in her arms.
The boy who had Anthony’s same dark curls and Kate’s wide eyes.
And her late husband’s name.
Her late husband’s smile.
For a fleeting instant, she was a young woman again—holding her son, watching Edmund’s smile from across the room.
Time, which had carried so much away from her, returned something precious in its stead.
Violet smoothed a hand over Edmund’s dark curls once more, memorizing the feel of him in her arms—the soft weight of him, the pout of his lips, the way his dark, inquisitive eyes searched her own as though he meant to understand her completely.
The child reached suddenly and caught her hand, his fingers curling gently around her index finger, holding fast as though anchoring himself there.
Violet stilled.
Her breath caught for the briefest moment before a quiet laugh escaped her—warm, unguarded, and full of something she had not realized she had been waiting for.
Kate stepped closer to Anthony, wrapping one arm around his back and resting the other lightly against his chest.
“He’s perfect,” Violet said softly. “Absolutely perfect.”
The sound of laughter ringing out from the sitting room at Bridgerton House was not, in and of itself, unusual.
But the sound of Sophie’s unbridled joy echoing down the halls of his family home was something Benedict had never been certain he would hear. The newness of it stopped him in his tracks—although, if he were honest, he suspected the sound would undo him just as thoroughly after years as it did now, only weeks into their betrothal.
He paused at the open doorway and glanced inside. Sophie and Kate sat close together on the sofa, forgotten cups of tea cooling beside them.
But it was the sight of the small boy in Sophie’s arms that made his chest tighten.
Sophie shifted the child on her lap; the baby reached for her with chubby hands, clapping them together in front of her face. Benedict watched as she beamed at him, murmuring something that made him giggle—a bright, bubbling sound that seemed far too large for so small a body.
Benedict had once fled from that sound.
From the joy brought about by a new life—a life that displaced him and made him question his purpose.
But now—now—he knew with certainty that if he and Sophie had children of their own, they would be welcomed, loved, and cherished just as Edmund was.
And he found purpose anew in the woman sitting on that sofa with his nephew in her arms.
He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he did not notice the presence beside him.
“You did well,” Benedict admitted, easing his posture and leaning against the frame.
“Kate will tell you that she did most of the work,” Anthony replied. “Rightfully so.”
Sophie pressed a kiss to the boy’s temple as though the gesture were the most natural thing in the world, and Benedict felt something settle quietly into place.
“It feels a bit silly that I haven’t met him yet,” Benedict said with a small shrug. “I—”
But Anthony waved him off with a clap of his hand against Benedict’s back.
“Luckily, he is one and quite forgiving of formalities,” his brother said with a smile—the easy relationship they had always shared settling back into place. “Would you like to meet him now?”
Sophie turned then, her eyes lighting when she saw him—not with surprise, but with a warmth that felt unmistakably like welcome.
“I would,” Benedict admitted, stepping across the threshold.
He crossed the room slowly, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace gathered there.
“We were beginning to wonder if you two were going to join us or simply linger in the hall,” Kate said teasingly.
“Just discussing important matters,” Anthony replied, propping himself on the arm of the sofa beside her. “As I’m sure you ladies were.”
Sophie bit back a smile as she stood, shifting the baby to her hip.
“Would you like to hold him?” she asked Benedict.
“Oh—”
But Edmund was already lunging out of Sophie’s arms, two little fists opening and closing as they reached determinedly for Benedict’s cravat.
“Hello there,” Benedict murmured as Sophie rescued the garment from Edmund’s enthusiastic grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The child was warm and solid in his arms—real in a way Benedict had not quite expected.
“You’ve got quite the grip,” he continued, bouncing the boy lightly.
“He knows what he wants,” Kate added.
“A Bridgerton trait,” Anthony said. “Stubborn from the start.”
“And charming enough to get away with it,” Sophie murmured, her hand curling briefly around Benedict’s sleeve in silent reassurance.
It was a small touch. Barely noticeable to anyone else.
But Benedict felt it settled him more surely than anything Anthony could have said.
“Well,” he said, glancing between the child in his arms and the woman beside him, “who could fault him for that?”
Edmund released Benedict’s cravat at last and reached instead for Sophie’s sleeve, clutching them both with determined satisfaction.
Benedict laughed softly.
“Welcome to the family,” he murmured—and this time, he meant it.
Anthony had just managed to convince Edmund that the carved wooden horse was not meant to be eaten when the quiet of the Bridgerton House sitting room shattered without warning.
The door burst open with all the subtlety of a cannon blast, followed by the unmistakable sound of three voices speaking over one another.
Anthony barely had time to register Hyacinth sweeping toward him with the unstoppable force of a summer storm.
Her arms wrapped around him in an instant, squeezing him tighter than he remembered her capable of.
“Mrs. Wilson said you’d arrived,” she said, her face still buried in the fabric of his waistcoat.
Anthony huffed a quiet laugh, steadying them both.
“Yes, well, if our goal was to go unnoticed, then I suppose we’ll need another plan after you three just announced my arrival to the entire square.”
“India made him no less dramatic, I see,” Eloise commented to Kate.
“No,” Kate smiled. “I daresay it did not.”
Anthony ignored the jab and turned back to his sister.
“You’ve grown.”
“Not so much,” Gregory chimed in.
Anthony eyed him critically.
“Are those hairs on your chin?”
Gregory stuck his chin out proudly.
“We’ll send for the barber,” Anthony said, clapping his brother on the back.
“We’ve been waiting for you all morning,” Hyacinth continued.
“All week,” Eloise corrected.
As if sensing the group at large ignoring his presence, Edmund let out a delighted shriek.
“Oh.”
Hyacinth’s gaze dropped.
Anthony followed her line of sight to the small figure at his side and bent to scoop him into his arms.
“This,” he said as the boy immediately reached for his tie pin, “is Edmund.”
For a moment, Edmund observed the trio while the trio studied him in return.
“He looks like you, I think,” Hyacinth said finally.
“He is small,” Gregory noted.
“He is a baby,” Eloise said, waving to him in greeting. “He’s supposed to be small.”
“Can I hold him?” Hyacinth asked, her hands already poised.
“Of course.”
Anthony lifted Edmund from his hip and passed him carefully to her. The pair regarded one another for a moment before Edmund happily reached for a loose curl at her shoulder.
“Not so fast,” Anthony said, intercepting the attempt and brushing Hyacinth’s curls safely out of reach.
Hyacinth laughed as Edmund tried again, this time lunging for her necklace.
“Oh, he is magnificent,” she declared.
“He is…interesting,” Eloise said, straightening the child’s sleeve.
“Do you think he knows who we are?” Gregory asked.
Edmund lunged toward Eloise, and she took him hesitantly.
“Obviously not,” she answered Gregory.
“But he will,” Kate assured him, stepping forward. Anthony slipped an arm around her waist.
Edmund reached suddenly for Eloise’s ears and grabbed them before anyone could intervene.
He laughed with delight at Eloise’s shocked expression, both of them frozen for a moment before Edmund erupted into giggles.
“You did not tell us he could laugh!” Hyacinth clapped excitedly.
Edmund mimicked the motion.
“What other tricks does he know?” Gregory asked.
“He is not a dog,” Eloise replied, though she shifted him slightly so she could watch his performance more closely.
Anthony watched the three of them surround the child with quiet amusement, each attempting to coax another laugh or make him mimic their movements.
Kate leaned gently into his side, smiling as Edmund clapped his hands again.
It seemed his son had already learned the most important Bridgerton skill of all—commanding an audience.
The sitting room at Bridgerton House was quieter than usual that afternoon.
Francesca suspected this was intentional.
Kate poured the tea with careful precision while Anthony hovered nearby, as though uncertain whether to sit or stand. Neither of them had yet mentioned the small person Francesca knew must be somewhere in the house.
“Thank you again for inviting us,” Michaela said before taking a sip.
Francesca noticed her ramrod posture, the careful clip of her words, the way every movement seemed meticulously accounted for.
In other words, Michaela Stirling was doing something Francesca was not entirely certain the woman was capable of—behaving.
“Oh, it is no trouble,” Kate replied easily.
“We feel as though we have hardly seen you,” Anthony said, finally settling beside her. Then, as if sensing the unspoken words in the room, he added, “since arriving home from India.”
“How was the journey?” Michaela asked, sparks of animation dancing behind the composed mask she was clearly fighting to maintain. “I’ve long wanted to visit, but the trip seems laborious. Even by my standards.”
“It was tiresome,” Kate admitted.
“But it was a trip worth the discomfort,” Anthony added.
The black crepe of Francesca’s sleeve brushed the porcelain cup as she set it down. The ache of losing John was still tender, like a wound so new it had not yet begun to heal.
She could not bear the thought of losing another person from her small circle even if the travel was meant to be temporary.
“Where is Edmund?” she asked, changing the subject for her own benefit. “I was hoping I might meet him today.”
She caught the glance Kate exchanged with Anthony. The small “o” that formed on Kate’s lips, as though she were calculating her reply before speaking.
“Oh,” she said. “We thought—”
“We thought you might prefer a quiet affair,” Anthony finished.
Francesca folded her hands neatly in her lap.
“I think,” she said calmly, “I would quite like the distraction.”
Anthony studied her for a moment before nodding.
“Very well,” he said quietly.
Kate set her teacup aside and rose from the sofa. “I will go fetch him.”
Francesca straightened the sleeves of her dress as the silence settled around them.
Once, she had found comfort in quiet rooms.
Now they only seemed larger.
Beside her, Michaela spun the ring she wore on her finger—a small motion to offset her otherwise rigid stillness.
The door to the sitting room creaked open as Kate returned, Edmund balanced carefully on her hip.
He clutched a corner of Kate’s sleeve as she stepped back into the room, his dark eyes sweeping curiously over the unfamiliar faces gathered there.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Francesca studied him with quiet concentration. He was smaller than she expected—round-cheeked and solemn in the way of very young children, his gaze bright with the sort of curiosity that had not yet learned caution.
He did not look like grief had ever touched the world he inhabited.
“Well,” Michaela said at last, leaning slightly forward in her chair, “that seems a very serious expression for a man who cannot yet speak.”
Edmund blinked at her voice, then turned his attention toward Francesca instead, his small hand lifting as though in greeting.
Kate noticed it at once and smiled faintly.
“He has decided he likes you already,” she said.
Something inside Francesca’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
“May I?” she asked quietly.
Kate crossed the room and settled Edmund carefully into Francesca’s arms.
He regarded her solemnly for a moment, as though weighing some important decision, before reaching forward to grasp the ribbon at the cuff of her sleeve.
Michaela snorted softly.
“Well,” she said, “you have been claimed.”
Francesca felt the faintest ghost of a smile tug at her mouth.
“He has excellent taste,” Anthony replied dryly.
Edmund seemed less interested in the conversation than in the room itself. His gaze wandered past the sofas and chairs until it landed on the pianoforte tucked near the window.
Francesca followed his line of sight.
“Would you like to see it?” she murmured.
She rose before anyone could object and carried him across the room. Edmund leaned forward with sudden enthusiasm as she settled onto the bench, his small hands already reaching.
“Gently,” she said, though she made no real effort to stop him.
His palm struck the keys with an enthusiastic thump.
The note rang out—loud and startling.
Edmund froze for a moment. Then his eyes widened with delight, and he did it again.
The second note was even louder, and Edmund erupted into laughter.
It burst out of him without restraint—bright, delighted, utterly unconcerned with dignity.
Francesca blinked in surprise.
And then, before she quite realized it had happened, she laughed too.
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked.
But Edmund was already determined to make the pianoforte produce more notes, giggling and wiggling as his small hands struck the keys again.
Francesca shifted him slightly, one arm steady around his waist while her other hand drifted to the keyboard. She played a simple melody, Edmund adding his own mismatched harmonies with great enthusiasm.
Francesca was too occupied to notice the glances exchanged across the room.
The way Anthony and Kate looked at one another with quiet relief, as though reassuring themselves that she would, in time, be all right.
Or the way Michaela watched with something dangerously close to amusement.
But Francesca and Edmund continued playing, laughter and uneven notes filling the room.
And the sitting room that had only moments before been heavy with grief slowly began to feel alive again.
Anthony watched Elliot carefully as he sat across from Colin in the Featherington drawing room.
“How many teeth does he have?” he asked after a moment.
Colin glanced down at his son with immediate pride.
“Two,” he replied. “Very formidable ones.”
Anthony nodded thoughtfully.
“Edmund has three.”
Kate closed her eyes briefly.
“Anthony—”
“Three?” Colin repeated, clearly unwilling to concede the point. “Well, Elliot is focusing on other skills.”
Anthony leaned forward slightly.
“Can he clap?”
Elliot chose that moment to wave both arms wildly in the air.
Colin straightened. “He can conduct,” he said firmly.
“That is hardly conducting,” Penelope laughed.
“It absolutely is,” Colin replied. “He is musically inclined.”
Anthony folded his arms.
“Edmund is crawling.”
Colin beamed. “Elliot has taken a few wobbly steps.”
“Only for the promise of a biscuit,” Penelope added.
Edmund chose that moment to roll enthusiastically onto his stomach and immediately begin chewing on the edge of his blanket.
“Edmund has an impressive crawl,” Anthony said.
Kate laughed softly, reaching over to adjust Edmund’s sleeve.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “they are infants.”
Penelope nodded in agreement. “And both of them are perfect.”
Anthony and Colin exchanged a look.
After a moment, Anthony nodded.
“Do you think they’ll be close?” Colin asked finally as Elliot crawled toward his lap.
“I hope so,” Anthony said genuinely. “With Edmund’s teeth and Elliot’s wobbly steps, they’ll be a force.”
The couples laughed at that, the sound mixing with coos and babbles from the boys.
Anthony gently ruffled Edmund’s curls while Colin adjusted Elliot’s sleeve, and for a moment the room was filled with laughter, soft chatter, and the unmistakable hum of family coming together.
Agatha Danbury was not an easily impressed woman.
She had lived the better part of her life in service to the Queen herself, had seen exotic animals, hosted foreign dignitaries, and enjoyed a front-row seat to most of the ton’s scandals.
And yet, she found herself utterly enamored by the small children in her life.
She had felt it when meeting Daphne and Simon’s children, her great godchildren—a swelling in her chest, a gentle awe at how something so astonishing could be created from nothing.
Now, standing in the doorway of Bridgerton House, she felt that same thrill tug at her heart.
Edmund’s dark eyes, wide with curiosity, locked onto hers from across the room.
“Oh,” Kate commented softly, “he’s—he’s quite taken with you already.”
Danbury raised an eyebrow but could not suppress a faint smile.
“Then we shall see if he survives my inspection.”
“Do not worry,” Daphne said, tilting her head toward Kate, “Lady Danbury is a partial judge at best.”
“I heard that,” Lady Danbury muttered, the sharp click of her cane echoing through the room as she crossed with her usual confidence.
Simon watched the exchange from the window with the faintest hint of amusement, one hand resting loosely along the back of the settee where Daphne sat. Beyond the open windows, their own children could be heard in the garden, their nanny attempting—with limited success—to corral them into something resembling orderly play.
Anthony shifted Edmund slightly higher on his hip as Lady Danbury approached.
“Well then,” she said, giving one final tap of her cane, “let us see what all this fuss is about.”
Edmund regarded her solemnly.
Danbury leaned closer, studying him with great seriousness, as though he were a rare artifact recently delivered to her for authentication.
“Hm.”
The baby blinked.
Then, without hesitation, Edmund reached out and grasped the top of her cane with both hands.
Simon barked out a laugh at the same moment Anthony did.
“Well,” Daphne said brightly, “that seems promising.”
Agatha looked down at the small fists wrapped around her cane and gave a thoughtful nod.
“Strong grip,” she observed.
Anthony carefully transferred Edmund into her waiting arms.
For a brief moment, the formidable Lady Danbury—terror of the ton, confidante of the Queen—stood perfectly still with a small boy balanced against her shoulder.
Edmund studied her face with deep concentration before reaching up to pat the side of her cheek with an open palm.
Danbury laughed softly, warmth creeping unmistakably into her expression.
“He has your eyes,” she commented to Kate. “And that Bridgerton hair.”
“Already refusing to be combed into order,” Anthony said.
“And the air of a future Viscount,” she added.
When Edmund reached for her cheek again, she spoke directly to him.
“Yes, you do.”
After a moment, she turned toward Kate.
The young woman sat in the armchair across the room, straight-backed but relaxed—at ease now in the role she had accepted when she married Anthony.
Lady Danbury remembered another version of her.
The determined eldest daughter who had arrived in London focused only on securing a future for her family. A young woman who had worn duty like armor and seemed wholly uninterested in claiming happiness for herself.
Kate had fought it fiercely.
Had denied it even when it stood directly before her.
And yet here she was now.
Wife to a Viscount.
Mother to the next one.
And—most importantly—happy.
Lady Danbury glanced down at Edmund, who had begun examining the buttons on her sleeve with great seriousness.
“Yes,” she murmured softly to him.
Then her gaze returned to Kate.
“Well done, my dear,” she said warmly. “Well done.”