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The sound of laughter and squeals lingered in the warm spring air as sunlight spilled across the grounds of Aubrey Hall. A cool breeze from the west set the long grasses and wildflowers swaying out of time, while the chorus of birds—newly returned for the warmer season—celebrated the rare reprieve from clouds and rain.
Blankets had been spread upon the lawn—sandwiches, tea, and biscuits long forgotten in favor of games and well-meaning mischief.
And in the middle of it all, Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and terror of the House of Lords, sat very still while his daughter tucked a daisy behind his ear.
Kate could hear her daughter giving instructions, her brow scrunched in fierce concentration. “Appa, you mustn’t move.”
Anthony’s posture straightened as a look of intense concentration overtook his features.
Next to him Benedict laid on a blanket as Violet plucked from a pile of flowers and patted them into her father’s hair one-by-one in deliberate toddler fashion.
Kate and Sophie sat a few yards off beneath the shade of a tall oak.
“You look as though you’re pondering something,” Kate said lightly, noting the thoughtful set of her friend’s expression.
Sophie’s gaze never left her husband. “Only that Araminta was right about one thing I suppose.”
Kate’s head turned sharply toward her.
Sophie’s lips curved, soft with something like wonder. “Reformed rakes really do make the best husbands.”
Kate couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “They have both certainly been very determined in proving it.”
The pair grew quiet for a moment longer, watching as Charlotte finished knotting the last stem of her creation and placed the crown firmly on Anthony’s head.
To the young girl’s immense delight, Anthony went cross-eyed trying to glimpse the flowers atop his head.
“Perfect,” she declared with the same authority and air as the Queen herself.
Anthony inclined his head at once. “Her ladyship is most kind.”
Charlotte giggled and seized his hands, tugging him up from the blanket. Within moments, they were both twirling—meandering, slow circles—across the tall grass. Anthony bowed when his daughter bowed, turned when she turned, and did not once remove the flower creation.
Nearby, Violet had abandoned her earlier pursuit and was instead, grabbing petals by the fistful and sprinkling them into Benedict’s chestnut curls.
“Papa,” she said, patting his forehead seriously.
Benedict raised his brows seriously, “Am I improved?”
The toddler considered him gravely before nodding.
“They do not even pretend to mind,” Sophie murmured as she watched her daughter clamber into Benedict’s lap.
Kate watched as Anthony twirled his daughter. “No,” she said softly. “They do not. I think they rather enjoy it.”
“It likely helps that they’re used to being led by strong-minded women.”
“Well,” Kate replied, watching Anthony bend to fix their daughter’s slipper, “it has certainly never hurt them.”
Charlotte’s laughter rang out again as Anthony attempted another serious bow, the crown slipping sideways but never falling. Nearby, Violet clapped with delight as Benedict tucked a flower into her hair.
Beneath the oak, Kate and Sophie sat in companionable silence, the breeze stirring the grass at their feet and carrying the sound of their families across the lawn.
A bee drifted lazily between the scattered wildflowers, hovering for a moment before darting away again. Somewhere in the distance, a lark trilled, bright and unhurried.
“What are you two so thoroughly discussing?”
Kate did not startle at Anthony’s voice—she had long since grown accustomed to the way he seemed to find her, no matter the distance—but she did not glance up, one brow lifting in mild amusement.
He had not removed the crown.
Not a single flower.
Behind him, Benedict dropped easily onto the grass beside Sophie, already reaching for her hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world. A crushed petal clung stubbornly to his curls.
“Yes,” he added, glancing between them. “You both look entirely too pleased with yourselves.”
Sophie’s lips curved. “We were merely observing.”
“Observing?” Anthony repeated, suspicious.
“Admiring, perhaps,” Kate added, while at last lifting her gaze to him—pointedly, deliberately. Her eyes flicked to the crown still perched precariously atop his head.
Benedict snorted softly. “Well, I for one feel very admired.”
“You would,” Anthony muttered.
Kate reached up before Anthony could respond, steadying the crown where it had begun to tilt. Her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary.
“It suits you,” she said lightly.
His expression shifted—just slightly, just enough.
“Does it?”
“Very much so.”
Across the lawn, Charlotte’s voice rang out again, already impatient. “Appa!”
Anthony exhaled, long-suffering in a way that fooled absolutely no one.
“You are summoned,” Kate said, not bothering to hide her smile.
Benedict leaned back on his hands. “Best not to keep her waiting. You have a reputation to maintain.”
Anthony gave a small shake of his head, but his hand brushed briefly against Kate’s shoulder as he passed—a fleeting, familiar touch.
“Do try not to speak too freely in my absence,” he murmured.
Kate’s eyes danced. “I make no such promises.”
“Come on, Papa,” Violet insisted, appearing at Benedict’s side and tugging insistently at his arm.
Benedict groaned softly but allowed himself to be pulled upright. “I see I am required as well.”
“Entirely,” Sophie said, far too pleased.
With matching expressions of long-suffering resignation, the brothers allowed themselves to be led back across the lawn—flower-crowned, petal-covered, and wholly taken with the two small girls who had a hold of them in more ways than one.
Kate and Sophie watched once more as their husbands bent to their daughters’ will.
“We are fortunate,” Sophie said quietly.
Kate’s gaze lingered on her husband—flower-crowned, ridiculous, and entirely devoted—and felt the truth of it settle, warm and steady, in her chest.
“We certainly are,” she agreed.