The Bridgertons Happily Ever After (31 page)

“Hyacinth.” Violet shifted her position so the girls could see the baby’s face. “What do you think?”

Francesca tilted her head to the side. “She doesn’t look like a Hyacinth,” Francesca declared.

“Yes, she does,” Eloise said briskly. “She’s very pink.”

Francesca shrugged, conceding the point.

“She’ll never know Papa,” Daphne said quietly.

“No,” Violet said. “No, she won’t.”

No one said anything, and then Francesca—little Francesca—said, “We can tell her about him.”

Violet choked on a sob. She hadn’t cried in front of her children since that very first day. She’d saved her tears for her solitude, but she couldn’t stop them now. “I think—I think that’s a wonderful idea, Frannie.”

Francesca beamed, and then she crawled onto the bed, squirming in until she’d found the perfect spot at her mother’s right side. Eloise followed, and then Daphne, and all of them—all the Bridgerton girls—peered down at the newest member of their family.

“He was very tall,” Francesca began.

“Not so tall,” Eloise said. “Benedict is taller.”

Francesca ignored her. “He was tall. And he smiled a great deal.”

“He held us on his shoulders,” Daphne said, her voice starting to wobble, “until we grew too large.”

“And he laughed,” Eloise said. “He loved to laugh. He had the very best laugh, our papa  . . .”

London

Thirteen years later

Violet had made it her life’s work to see all eight of her children happily settled in life, and in general, she did not mind the myriad tasks this entailed. There were parties and invitations and dressmakers and milliners, and that was just the girls. Her sons needed just as much guidance, if not more. The only difference was that society afforded the boys considerably more freedom, which meant that Violet did not need to scrutinize every last detail of their lives.

Of course she tried. She was a mother, after all.

She had a feeling, however, that her job as mother would never be so demanding as it was right at this moment, in the spring of 1815.

She knew very well that in the grand scheme of life, she had nothing about which to complain. In the past six months, Napoleon had escaped Elba, a massive volcano had erupted in the East Indies, and several hundred British soldiers had lost their lives at the Battle of New Orleans—mistakenly fought
after
the peace treaty with the Americans had been signed. Violet, on the other hand, had eight healthy children, all of whom presently had both feet planted on English soil.

However.

There was always a
however
, wasn’t there?

This spring marked the first (and Violet prayed, the last) season for which she had two girls “on the market.”

Eloise had debuted in 1814, and anyone would have called her a success. Three marriage proposals in three months. Violet had been over the moon. Not that she would have allowed Eloise to accept two of them—the men had been too old. Violet did not care how highly ranked the gentlemen were; no daughter of hers was going to shackle herself to someone who would die before she reached thirty.

Not that this couldn’t happen with a young husband. Illness, accidents, freakishly deadly bees . . . Any number of things could take a man out in his prime. But still, an old man was more likely to die than a young one.

And even if that weren’t the case . . . What young girl in her right mind wanted to marry a man past sixty?

But only two of Eloise’s suitors had been disqualified for age. The third had been just a year shy of thirty, with a minor title and a perfectly respectable fortune. There had been nothing wrong with Lord Tarragon. Violet was sure he’d make someone a lovely husband.

Just not Eloise.

So now here they were. Eloise was on her second season and Francesca was on her first, and Violet was
exhausted
. She couldn’t even press Daphne into service as an occasional chaperone. Her eldest daughter had married the Duke of Hastings two years earlier and then had promptly managed to get herself pregnant for the duration of the 1814 season. And the 1815 one as well.

Violet loved having a grandchild and was over the moon at the prospect of two more arriving soon (Anthony’s wife was also with child), but really, sometimes a woman needed help. This evening, for example, had been an utter disaster.

Oh, very well, perhaps
disaster
was a bit of an overstatement, but really, who had thought it a good idea to host a masquerade ball? Because Violet was certain it had not been she. And she had definitely not agreed to attend as Queen Elizabeth. Or if she had, she had not agreed to the crown. It weighed at least five pounds, and she was terrified it would go flying off her head every time she snapped it back and forth, trying to keep an eye on both Eloise and Francesca.

No wonder her neck hurt.

But a mother could not be too careful, especially at a masquerade ball, when young gentlemen (and the occasional young lady) saw their costumes as a license to misbehave. Let’s see, there was Eloise, tugging at her Athena costume as she chatted with Penelope Featherington. Who was dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.

Where was Francesca? Good heavens, that girl could go invisible in a treeless field. And while she was on the subject, where was Benedict? He had
promised
to dance with Penelope, and he had completely disappeared.

Where had he—

“Ooof!”

“Oh, my pardon,” Violet said, disentangling herself from a gentleman who appeared to be dressed as . . .

As himself, actually. With a mask.

She did not recognize him, however. Not the voice nor the face beneath the mask. He was of average height, with dark hair and an elegant bearing.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said.

Violet blinked, then remembered—
the crown
. Although how she might forget the five-pound monstrosity on her head, she’d never know.

“Good evening,” she replied.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Again, she wondered at the voice, and again, she came up with nothing. “Several someones, actually,” she murmured. “Unsuccessfully.”

“My condolences,” he said, taking her hand and leaning over it with a kiss. “I myself try to restrict my quests to one someone at a time.”

You don’t have eight children
, Violet almost retorted, but at the last moment she held her tongue. If she did not know this gentleman’s identity, there was a chance that he did not know hers, either.

And of course, he
could
have eight children. She wasn’t the only person in London to have been so blessed in her marriage. Plus, the hair on his temples was shot through with silver, so he was likely old enough to have sired that many.

“Is it acceptable for a humble gentleman to request a dance with a queen?” he asked her.

Violet almost refused. She hardly ever danced in public. It wasn’t that she objected to it, or that she thought it unseemly. Edmund had been gone for more than a dozen years. She still mourned him, but she was not
in
mourning. He would not have wanted that. She wore bright colors, and she maintained a busy social schedule, but still, she rarely danced. She just didn’t want to.

But then he smiled, and something about it reminded her of the way Edmund had smiled—that eternally boyish, ever-so-knowing tilt of the lips. It had always made her heart flip, and while this gentleman’s smile didn’t quite do
that
, it woke something inside of her. Something a little bit devilish, a little carefree.

Something
young
.

“I would be delighted,” she said, placing her hand in his.

“Is Mother
dancing
?” Eloise whispered to Francesca.

“More to the point,” Francesca returned, “who is she dancing
with
?”

Eloise craned her neck, not bothering to hide her interest. “I have no idea.”

“Ask Penelope,” Francesca suggested. “She always seems to know who everyone is.”

Eloise twisted again, this time searching the other side of the room. “Where
is
Penelope?”

“Where is Benedict?” Colin asked, ambling over to his sisters’ sides.

“I don’t know,” Eloise replied. “Where is Penelope?”

He shrugged. “Last I saw her, she was hiding behind a potted plant. You’d think with that leprechaun costume she’d camouflage better.”

“Colin!” Eloise smacked his arm. “Go ask her to dance.”

“I already did!” He blinked. “Is that Mother dancing?”

“That’s why we were looking for Penelope,” Francesca said.

Colin just stared at her, his lips parted.

“It made sense when we said it,” Francesca said with a wave. “Do you know who she’s dancing with?”

Colin shook his head. “I hate masquerades. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

“Hyacinth,” Eloise said grimly.

“
Hyacinth?
” Colin echoed.

Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “She’s like a puppet master,” she growled.

“God save us all when she’s grown,” Colin said.

No one had to say it, but their faces showed their collective
Amen
.

“Who
is
that dancing with Mother?” Colin asked.

“We don’t know,” Eloise replied. “That’s why we were looking for Penelope. She always seems to know these things.”

“She does?”

Eloise scowled at him. “Do you notice anything?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” he said affably. “Just not generally what
you
want me to notice.”

“We are going to stand here,” Eloise announced, “until the dance is finished. And then we shall question her.”

“Question whom?”

They all looked up. Anthony, their eldest brother, had arrived.

“Mother is dancing,” Francesca said, not that that technically answered his question.

“With whom?” Anthony asked.

“We don’t know,” Colin told him.

“And you plan to interrogate her about it?”

“That was Eloise’s plan,” Colin replied.

“I didn’t hear you arguing with me,” Eloise shot back.

Anthony’s brows came together. “I should think it is the gentleman who warrants an interrogation.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Colin asked of none of them in particular, “that as a woman of fifty-two years, she is perfectly capable of choosing her own dance partners?”

“No,” Anthony replied, his sharp syllable slicing across Francesca’s: “She’s our
mother
.”

“Actually, she’s only fifty-one,” Eloise said. At Francesca’s sour glare, she added, “Well, she
is
.”

Colin gave one baffled look at his sisters before turning to Anthony. “Have you seen Benedict?”

Anthony shrugged. “He was dancing earlier.”

“With someone
I don’t know
,” Eloise said with rising intensity. And volume.

All three of her siblings turned to her.

“None of you find it curious,” she demanded, “that both Mother and Benedict are dancing with mysterious strangers?”

“Not really, no,” Colin murmured. There was a pause as they all continued to watch their mother make her elegant steps on the dance floor, and then he added, “It occurs to me that this might be why she never dances.”

Anthony quirked an imperious brow.

“We’ve stood here for the past several minutes and done nothing but speculate about her behavior,” Colin pointed out.

Silence, and then, from Eloise, “So?”

“She’s our
mother
,” Francesca said.

“You don’t think she deserves her privacy? No, don’t answer that,” Colin decided. “I’m going to look for Benedict.”

“You don’t think
he
deserves his privacy?” Eloise countered.

“No,” Colin replied. “But at any rate, he’s safe enough. If Benedict doesn’t want to be found, I won’t find him.” With wry salute he wandered off toward the refreshments, although it was really quite obvious that Benedict wasn’t anywhere near the biscuits.

“Here she comes,” Francesca hissed, and true enough, the dance had ended, and Violet was walking back to the perimeter of the room.

“Mother,” Anthony said sternly, the moment she reached her children.

“Anthony,” she said with a smile, “I haven’t seen you all evening. How is Kate? I’m so sorry she wasn’t feeling up to attending.”

“Who were you dancing with?” Anthony demanded.

Violet blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Who were you dancing with?” Eloise repeated.

“Honestly?” Violet said with a faint smile. “I don’t know.”

Anthony crossed his arms. “How is that possible?”

“It’s a masquerade ball,” Violet said with some amusement. “Secret identities and all that.”

“Are you going to dance with him again?” Eloise asked.

“Probably not,” Violet said, glancing out over the crowd. “Have you seen Benedict? He was supposed to dance with Penelope Featherington.”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Eloise said.

Violet turned to her, and this time her eyes held a light gleam of reproof. “Was there a subject?”

“We are merely looking out for your best interests,” Anthony said, after clearing his throat several times.

“I’m sure you are,” Violet murmured, and no one dared to comment on the delicate undertone of condescension in her voice.

“It’s just that you so rarely dance,” Francesca explained.

“Rarely,” Violet said lightly. “Not never.”

And then Francesca voiced what they had all been wondering: “Do you like him?”

“The man with whom I just danced? I don’t even know his name.”

“But—”

“He had a very nice smile,” Violet cut in, “and he asked me to dance.”

“And?”

Violet shrugged. “And that’s all. He talked a great deal about his collection of wooden ducks. I doubt our paths will cross again.” She nodded at her children. “If you will excuse me . . .”

Anthony, Eloise, and Francesca watched her walk away. After a long beat of silence, Anthony said, “Well.”

“Well,” Francesca concurred.

They looked expectantly at Eloise, who scowled back at them and finally exclaimed, “No, that did
not
go well.”