Prologue--The Viscount Who Love Me

Anthony Bridgerton had always known he would die young.
Oh, not as a child. Young Anthony had never had cause to ponder his own mortality. His early years had been a young boy's perfection, right from the very day of his birth.
It was true that Anthony was the heir to an ancient and wealthy viscountcy, but unlike most other aristocratic couples, Lord and Lady Bridgerton were very much in love, and they saw their son's birth not as the arrival of an heir, but rather that of a child.
And so there were no parties, no fetes, no celebration other than that of mother and father staring in wonderment at their new son.
The Bridgertons were young parents-- Edmund barely twenty and Violet just eighteen, but they were sensible and they were strong, and they loved their son with a fierceness and devotion that was rarely seen in their social circles. Much to her own mother's horror, Violet insisted upon nursing the boy herself, and Edmund never subscribed to the prevailing attitude that fathers should neither see nor hear their children. He took the infant on long hikes across the fields of Kent, spoke to him of philosophy and poetry before he could possibly understand the words, and told him a bedtime story every night.
Because the viscount and viscountess were so young and so very much in love, it came as no surprise to anyone when, just two years after Anthony's birth, he was joined by a younger brother, christened Benedict. Edmund immediately adjusted his daily routine to take two sons on his hikes, and he spent a week holed up in the stables, working with his leathersmith to devise a special pack that would hold Anthony on the his back while he held the baby Benedict in his arms.
They walked across fields and streams, and he told them of wondrous things, of perfect flowers and clear blue skies, of knights in shining armor and damsels in distress. Violet used to laugh when they returned, all windblown and sun-kissed, and Edmund would say, "See? Here is our damsel in distress. Clearly we must save her." And Anthony would throw himself into his mother's arms, giggling as he swore he'd protect her from the fire-breathing dragon they'd seen just two miles down the road in the village.
"Two miles down the road in the village?" Violet would breathe, keeping her voice carefully laden with horror. "Heaven above, what would I do without three strong men to protect me?"

"Benedict's a baby," Anthony would reply.
"But he'll grow up," she'd always say, tousling his hair, "just as you did. And just as you still will."
Edmund always treated his children with equal affection and devotion, but late at night, when Anthony cradled the Bridgerton pocket watch to his chest (given to him on his eighth birthday by his father, who had received it on his eighth birthday from his father) he liked to think that his relationship with his father was just a little bit special. Not because Edmund loved him best; by that point the Bridgerton siblings numbered four (Colin and Daphne had arrived fairly close together) and Anthony knew very well that all the children were well loved.
No, Anthony liked to think that his relationship with his father was special simply because he'd known him the longest. After all, no matter how long Benedict had known their father, Anthony would always have two years on him. And six on Colin. And as for Daphne, well, beside the fact that she was a girl (the horror!) she'd known Father a full eight years less than he had and, he liked to remind himself, always would.
Edmund Bridgerton was, quite simply, the very center of Anthony's world. He was tall, his shoulders were broad, and he could ride a horse as if he'd been born in the saddle. He always knew the answers to arithmetic questions (even when the tutor didn't), he saw no reason why his sons should not have a tree house (and then he went and built it himself), and his laugh was the sort that warmed a body from the inside out.
Edmund taught Anthony how to ride. He taught Anthony how to shoot. He taught him to swim. He took him off to Eton himself, rather than sending him in a carriage with servants, as most of Anthony's future friends arrived, and when he saw Anthony glancing nervously about the school that would become his new home, he had a heart-to-heart talk with his eldest son, assuring him that everything would be all right.
And it was. Anthony knew it would be. His father, after all, never lied.
Anthony loved his mother. Hell, he'd probably bite off his own arm if it meant keeping her safe and well. But growing up, everything he did, every accomplishment, every goal, every single hope and dream -- it was all for his father. And then one day, everything changed. It was funny, he reflected later, how one's life could alter in an instant, how one minute everything could be a certain way, and the next it's simply... not.
It happened when Anthony was eighteen, home for the summer and preparing for his first year at Oxford. He was to belong to All Souls College, as his father had before him, and his life was as bright and dazzling as any eighteen-year-old had a right to enjoy. He had discovered women, and perhaps more splendidly, they had discovered him, and he even managed not to roll his eyes when he passed his mother in the hall-- pregnant with her eighth child! Anthony thought it a bit unseemly that his parents were still happily reproducing, but he kept his opinions to himself.
Who was he to doubt Edmund's wisdom? Maybe he, too, would want more children at the advanced age of thirty-eight.
When Anthony found out, it was late afternoon. He was returning from a long and bruising ride with Benedict and had just pushed through the front door of Aubrey Hall, the ancestral home of the Bridgertons, when he saw his ten-year-old sister, sitting on the floor. Benedict was still in the stables, having lost some silly bet with Anthony, the terms of which required him to rub down both horses.
Anthony stopped short when he saw Daphne. It was odd enough that his sister was sitting in the middle of the floor in the main hall. It was even more odd that she was crying.
Daphne never cried.
"Daff," he said hesitantly, too young to know what to do with a crying female and wondering if he'd ever learn, "what--"
But before he could finish his question, Daphne lifted her head, and the shattering heartbreak in her large, brown eyes cut through him like a knife. He stumbled back a step, knowing something was wrong, terribly wrong.
"He's dead," Daphne whispered. "Papa is dead."
For a moment Anthony was sure he'd misheard. His father couldn't be dead. Other people died young, like Uncle Hugo, but Uncle Hugo had been small and frail. Well, at least smaller and frailer than Edmund.
"You're wrong," he told Daphne. "You must be wrong."
She shook her head. "Eloise told me. He was... It was..."
Anthony knew he shouldn't shake his sister while she sobbed, but he couldn't help himself. "It was what, Daphne?"
"A bee," she whispered. "He was stung by a bee."
For a moment Anthony could do nothing but stare at her. Finally, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable, he said, "A man doesn't die from a bee sting, Daphne."
She said nothing, just sat there on the floor, her throat working convulsively as she tried to control her tears.
"He's been stung before," Anthony added, his voice rising in volume. "I was with him. We were both stung. We came across a nest. I was stung on the shoulder." Unbidden, his hand rose to touch the spot where he'd been stung so many years before. In a whisper he added, "He on his arm."
Daphne just stared at him with an eerily blank expression.
"He was fine," Anthony insisted. He could hear the panic in his voice and knew he was frightening his sister, but he was powerless to control it. "A man can't die from a bee sting!"
Daphne shook her head, her dark eyes suddenly looking about a hundred years old. "It was a bee," she said in a hollow voice. "Eloise saw it. One minute he was just standing there, and the next he was... he was..."
Anthony felt something very strange building within him, as if his muscles were about to jump through his skin. "The next he was what, Daphne?"
"Gone." She looked bewildered by the word, as bewildered as he felt.
Anthony left Daphne sitting in the hall and took the stairs three at a time up to his parents' bedchamber. Surely his father wasn't dead. A man couldn't die from a bee sting. It was impossible. Utterly mad. Edmund Bridgerton was young, he was strong. He was tall, his shoulders were broad, his muscles were powerful, and by God, no insignificant honey bee could have felled him.
But when Anthony reached the upstairs hall, he could tell by the utter and complete silence of the dozen or so hovering servants that the situation was grim.
And their pitying faces... For the rest of his life he'd be haunted by those pitying faces.
He'd thought he'd have to push his way into his parents' room, but the servants parted as if drops in the Red Sea, and when Anthony pushed open the door, he knew.
His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, not weeping, not even making a sound, just holding his father's hand as she rocked slowly back and forth.
His father was still. Still as...
Anthony didn't even want to think the word.
"Mama?" he choked out. He hadn't called her that for years; she'd been "Mother" since he'd left for Eton.
She turned, slowly, as if hearing his voice through a long, long tunnel.
"What happened?" he whispered.
She shook her head, her eyes hopelessly far away. "I don't know," she said. Her lips remained parted by an inch or so, as if she'd meant to say something more but then forgotten to do it.
Anthony took a step forward, his movements awkward and jerky.
"He's gone," Violet finally whispered. "He's gone and I... Oh, God, I..." She placed a hand on her belly, full and round with child. "I told him-- Oh, Anthony, I told him--"
She looked as if she might shatter from the inside out. Anthony choked back the tears that were burning his eyes and stinging his throat and moved to her side. "It's all right, Mama," he said.
But he knew it wasn't all right. "I told him this had to be our last," she gasped, sobbing onto his shoulder.
"I told him I couldn't carry another, and we'd have to be careful, and... Oh, God, Anthony, what I'd do to have him here and give him another child. I don't understand. I just don't understand..."
Anthony held her while she cried. He said nothing; it seemed useless to try to make any words fit the devastation in his heart.
He didn't understand, either.

The doctors came later that evening and pronounced themselves baffled. They'd heard of such things before, but never in one so young and strong. He was so vital, so powerful; nobody could have known. It was true that the viscount's younger brother Hugo had died quite suddenly the year before, but such things did not necessarily run in families, and besides, even though Hugo had died by himself out of doors, no one had noticed a bee sting on his skin.
Then again, nobody had looked.
Nobody could have known, the doctors kept saying, over and over until Anthony wanted to strangle them all. Eventually he got them out of the house, and he put his mother to bed. They had to move her into a spare bedroom; she grew agitated at the thought of sleeping in the bed she'd shared for so many years with Edmund. Anthony managed to send his six brothers and sisters to bed as well, telling them that they'd all talk in the morning, that everything would be well, and he would take care of them as their father would have wanted.
Then he walked into the room where his father's body still lay and looked at him. He looked at him and looked at him, staring at him for hours, barely blinking.
And when he left the room, he left with a new vision of his own life, and new knowledge about his own mortality.
Edmund Bridgerton had died at the age of thirty-eight. And Anthony simply couldn't imagine ever surpassing his father in any way, even in years.


Chapter One
The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.
Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.
A rake (lower-case) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.
A Rake (upper-case) knows he is dangerous to women.
He doesn't flaunt his exploits because he doesn't need to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women alike, and in fact, he'd rather they didn't whisper about him at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further recountings are, to him, redundant.
He doesn't behave like an idiot for the simple reason that he isn't an idiot (any moreso than must be expected among all members of the male gender). He has little patience for the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time This Author cannot say she blames him.
And if that doesn't describe Viscount Bridgerton --surely this season's most eligible bachelor-- to perfection, This Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only question is: Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the exquisite bliss of matrimony?
This Author Thinks...
Not.
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers,20 April 1814

"Please don't tell me," Kate Sheffield said to the room at large, "that she is writing about Viscount Bridgerton again."
Her half-sister Edwina, younger by almost four years, looked up from behind the single-sheet newspaper. "How could you tell?"
"You're giggling like a madwoman."
Edwina giggled, shaking the blue damask sofa on which they both sat.
"See?" Kate said, giving her a little poke in the arm. "You always giggle when she writes about some reprehensible rogue." But Kate grinned. There was little she liked better than teasing her sister. In a good-natured manner, of course.
Mary Sheffield, Edwina's mother, and Kate's stepmother since the age of three, glanced up from her embroidery and pushed her spectacles further up the bridge of her nose. "What are you two laughing about?"
"Kate's in a snit because Lady Whistledown is writing about that rakish viscount again," Edwina explained.
"I'm not in a snit," Kate said, even though no one was listening.
"Bridgerton?" Mary asked absently.
Edwina nodded. "Yes."
"She always writes about him."
"I think she just likes writing about rakes," Edwina commented.
"Of course she likes writing about rakes," Kate retorted. "If she wrote about boring people, no one would buy her newspaper."
"That's not true," Edwina replied. "Just last week she wrote about us, and heaven knows, we're not the most interesting people in London."
Kate smiled at her sister's naivete. Kate and Mary might not be the most interesting people in London, but Edwina, with her buttery-colored hair and startlingly pale blue eyes, had already been named the Incomparable of 1814. Kate, on the other hand, with her plain brown hair and eyes, was usually referred to as "the Incomparable's older sister."
She supposed there were worse monikers. At least no one had yet begun to call her "the Incomparable's spinster sister." Which was a great deal closer to the truth than any of the Sheffields cared to admit. At twenty (nearly twenty-one, if one was going to be scrupulously honest about it), Kate was a bit long in the tooth to be enjoying her first season in London.
But there hadn't really been any other choice. The Sheffields hadn't been wealthy even when Kate's father had been alive, and since he'd passed on five years earlier, they'd been forced to economize even further. They certainly weren't ready for the poorhouse, but they had to mind every penny and watch every pound.
With their straitened finances, the Sheffields could manage the funds for only one trip to London. Renting a house --and a carriage-- and hiring the bare minimum of servants for the season cost money. More money than they could afford to spend twice. As it was, they'd had to save for five solid years to be able to afford this trip to London. And if the girls weren't successful on the Marriage Mart... Well, no one was going to clap them into debtor's prison, but they would have to look forward to a quiet life of genteel poverty at some charmingly small cottage in Somerset.
And so the two girls were forced to make their debuts in the same year. It had been decided that the most logical time would be when Edwina was just seventeen and Kate almost twenty-one. Mary would have liked to have waited until Edwina was eighteen, and a bit more mature, but that would have made Kate nearly twenty-two, and heavens, but who would have married her then?
Kate smiled wryly. She hadn't even wanted a season. She'd known from the outset that she wasn't the sort who would capture the attention of the ton. She wasn't pretty enough to overcome her lack of dowry, and she'd never learned to simper and mince and walk delicately, and do all those things other girls seemed to know how to do in the cradle. Even Edwina, who didn't have a devious bone in her body, somehow knew how to stand and walk and sigh so that men came to blows just for the honor of helping her cross the street.
Kate, on the other hand, always stood with her shoulders straight and tall, couldn't sit still if her life depended upon it, and walked as if she were in a race--and why not, she always wondered, if one was going somewhere, what could possibly be the point in not getting there quickly?
As for her current season in London, she didn't even like the city very much. Oh, she was having a good enough time, and she'd met quite a few nice people, but a London season seemed a horrible waste of money to a girl who would have been perfectly content to remain in the country and find some sensible man to marry there.
But Mary would have none of that. "When I married your father," she'd said, "I vowed to love you and bring you up with all the care and affection I'd give to a child of my own blood."
Kate had managed to get in a single, "But--" before Mary carried on with, "I have a responsibility to your poor mother, God rest her soul, and part of that responsibility is to see you married off happily and securely."
"I could be happy and secure in the country," Kate had replied.
Mary had countered, "There are more men from which to choose in London."
After which Edwina had joined in, insisting that she would be utterly miserable without her, and since Kate never could bear to see her sister unhappy, her fate had been sealed.
And so here she was -- sitting in a somewhat faded drawing room in a rented house in a section of London that was almost fashionable, and...
She looked about mischievously.
...and she was about to snatch a newspaper from her sister's grasp.
"Kate!" Edwina squealed, her eyes bugging out at the tiny triangle of newsprint that remained between her right thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't done yet!"
"You've been reading it forever," Kate said with a cheeky grin. "Besides, I want to see what she has to say about Viscount Bridgerton today."
Edwina's eyes, which were usually compared to peaceful Scottish lochs, glinted devilishly. "You're awfully interested in the viscount, Kate. Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Don't be silly. I don't even know the man. And if I did, I would probably run in the opposite direction. He is exactly the sort of man the two of us should avoid at all costs. He could probably seduce an iceberg."
"Kate!" Mary exclaimed.
Kate grimaced. She'd forgotten her stepmother was listening. "Well, it's true," she added. "I've heard he's had more mistresses than I've had birthdays."
Mary looked at her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not she wanted to respond, and then finally she said, "Not that this is an appropriate topic for your ears, but many men have."
"Oh." Kate flushed. There was little less appealing than being decisively contradicted while one was trying to make a grand point. "Well, then, he's had twice as many. Whatever the case, he's far more promiscuous than most men, and not the sort Edwina ought to allow to court her."
"You are enjoying a season as well," Mary reminded her.
Kate shot Mary the most sarcastic of glances. They all knew that if the viscount chose to court a Sheffield, it would not be Kate.
"I don't think there is anything in there that's going to alter your opinion," Edwina said with a shrug as she leaned toward Kate to get a better view of the newspaper. "She doesn't say very much about him, actually. It's more of a treatise on the topic of rakes."
Kate's eyes swept over the typeset words. "Hmmph," she said, her favorite expression of disdain. "I'll wager she's correct. He probably won't come up to scratch this year."
"You always think Lady Whistledown is correct," Mary murmured with a smile.
"She usually is," Kate replied. "You must admit, for a gossip columnist, she displays remarkable good sense. She has certainly been correct in her assessment of all the people I have met thus far in London."
"You should make your own judgments, Kate," Mary said lightly. "It is beneath you to base your opinions upon a gossip column."
Kate knew her stepmother was right, but she didn't want to admit it, and so she just let out another "hmmph," and turned back to the paper in her hands.
Whistledown was, without a doubt, the most interesting reading material in all London. Kate wasn't entirely certain when the gossip column had begun --sometime the previous year, she'd heard-- but one thing was certain. Whoever Lady Whistledown was (and no one really knew who she was) she was a well-connected member of the ton. She had to be. No interloper could ever uncover all the gossip she printed in her columns every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Lady Whistledown always had all the latest on-dits, and unlike other columnists, she wasn't hesitant about using people's full names. Having decided last week, for example, that Kate didn't look good in yellow, she wrote, clear as day: "The color yellow makes the dark-haired Miss Katharine Sheffield look like a singed daffodil."
Kate hadn't minded the insult. She'd heard it said on more than one occasion that one could not consider oneself "arrived" until one had been insulted by Lady Whistledown. Even Edwina, who was a huge social success by anyone's measure, had been jealous that Kate had been singled out for an insult.
And even though Kate didn't particularly want to be in London for a season, she figured that if she had to participate in the social whirl, she might as well not be a complete and utter failure. If getting insulted in a gossip column was to be her only sign of success, well, then, so be it. Kate would take her triumphs where she may.
Now when Penelope Featherington bragged about being likened to an overripe citrus fruit in her tangerine satin, Kate could wave her arm and sigh with great drama, "Yes, well, I am a singed daffodil."
"Someday," Mary announced out of the blue, giving her spectacles yet another push with her index finger, "someone is going to discover that woman's true identity, and then she's going to be in trouble."
Edwina looked at her mother with interest. "Do you really think someone will ferret her out? She has managed to keep her secret for over a year now."
"Nothing that big can stay a secret forever," Mary replied. She jabbed her embroidery with her needle, pulling a long strand of yellow thread through the fabric. "Mark my words. It's all going to come out sooner or later, and when it does, a scandal the likes of which you have never seen is going to erupt all over town."
"Well, if I knew who she was," Kate announced, flipping the single-sheet newspaper over to page two, "I'd probably make her my best friend. She's fiendishly entertaining. And no matter what anyone says, she's almost always right."
Just then, Newton, Kate's somewhat overweight corgi, trotted into the room.
"Isn't that dog supposed to stay outside?" Mary asked. Then she yelped, "Kate!" as the dog angled over to her feet and panted as if waiting for a kiss.
"Newton, come here this minute," Kate ordered.
The dog gazed longingly at Mary, then waddled over to Kate, hopped up onto the sofa, and laid his front paws across her lap.
"He's covering you with fur," Edwina said.
Kate shrugged as she stroked his thick, caramel-colored coat. "I don't mind."
Edwina sighed, but she reached out and gave Newton a quick pat, anyway. "What else does she say?" she asked, leaning forward with interest. "I never did get to see page two."
Kate smiled at her sister's sarcasm. "Not much. A little something about the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, who apparently arrived in town earlier this week, a list of the food at Lady Danbury's ball, which she proclaimed 'surprisingly delicious,' and a rather unfortunate description of Mrs. Featherington's gown Monday last."
Edwina frowned. "She does seem to pick on the Featheringtons quite a bit."
"And no wonder," Mary said, setting down her embroidery as she stood up. "That woman wouldn't know how to pick out a dress color for her girls if a rainbow wrapped itself right around her neck."
"Mother!" Edwina exclaimed.
Kate clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. Mary rarely made such opinionated pronouncements, but when she did, they were always marvelous.
"Well, it's true. She keeps dressing her youngest in tangerine. Anyone can see that poor girl needs a blue or a mint green."
"You dressed me in yellow," Kate reminded her.
"And I'm sorry I did. That will teach me to listen to a shopgirl. I should never have doubted my own judgment. We'll simply have to have that one cut down for Edwina."
Since Edwina was a full head shorter than Kate, and several shades more delicate, this would not be a problem.
"When you do," Kate said, turning to her sister, "make sure you eliminate the ruffle on the sleeve. It's dreadfully distracting. And it itches. I had half a mind to rip it off right there at the Ashbourne ball."
Mary rolled her eyes. "I am both surprised and thankful that you saw fit to restrain yourself."
"I am surprised but not thankful," Edwina said with a mischievous smile. "Just think of the fun Lady Whistledown would have had with that."
"Ah yes," Kate said, returning her grin. "I can see it now. 'The singed daffodil rips off her petals. More details to follow.' "
"I am going upstairs," Mary announced, shaking her head at her daughters' antics. "Do try not to forget that we have a party to attend this evening. You girls may want to get a bit of rest before we go out. It's sure to be another late night for us."
Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to wear tonight?"
"The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me."
"If you don't wear white," Edwina said loyally, "then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin."
Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. "Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well."
Edwina blinked in surprise. "Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?"
Kate looked back up. "Of course. All of your swain try to pass on their compliments through me."
"They do? Whyever?"
Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. "Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister's approval."
Edwina's cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. "It wasn't the entire audience," she mumbled.
"It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn't even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it."
Edwina crossed her arms and let out a "hmmph" that made her sound rather like her older sister. "Well, it's true, and I don't care who knows it. I know I'm expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don't have to marry someone who will ill-treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff."
"Am I so difficult to impress, then?"
The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, "Yes."
But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was...
Kate was Kate.
Kate didn't mind. Edwina's beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she'd always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she'd never be as pretty as Edwina.
Besides, Kate wasn't certain that she'd like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.
"Edwina," Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, "you don't have to marry anyone you don't like. You know that."
Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.
"If you decide there isn't a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There's no one I like better, anyway."
"Nor I," Edwina whispered.
"And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company."
"You might find someone to marry as well," Edwina pointed out.
Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. "I might," she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn't true. She didn't want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. "Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable," she teased.
Edwina swatted her with a pillow. "Don't be silly."
"But I'm not!" Kate protested. And she wasn't. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.
"Do you know what sort of man I'd like to marry?" Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.
Kate shook her head.
"A scholar."
"A scholar?"
"A scholar," Edwina said firmly.
Kate cleared her throat. "I'm not certain you'll find many of those in town for the season."
"I know." Edwina let out a little sigh. "But the truth is --and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public-- I'm really rather bookish. I'd much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well."
"Right. Hmmm..." Kate's mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn't likely to find a scholar back in Somerset either. "You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do."
"That would be all right," Edwina said happily. "I'd be quite content with an amateur scholar."
Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.
"And do you know what," Edwina added. "You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart."
"Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he's the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!"
"I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he's not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right."
Kate patted her sister on the arm. "Don't worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not-- not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!"

At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White's with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.
Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married."
Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested --tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs-- fell over.
Colin Bridgerton started to choke.
Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.
It narrowly missed Anthony's ear.
Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.
Well, perhaps more than a bit. "Complete," "total," and "utter" were words that came to mind.
Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He'd spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he'd had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.
With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently-bred women. He'd already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three... He freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.
No, he certainly wasn't about to despoil some other gentleman's younger sister.
But as for the other sort of women-- the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into-- he'd enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he'd not been without a mistress.
Sometimes, he thought wryly, he'd not been without two.
He'd ridden in nearly every horse race society had to offer, he'd boxed at Gentleman Jackson's, and he'd won more card games than he could count. (He'd lost a few, too, but he disregarded those.) He'd spent the decade of his twenties in a mindful pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility to his family.
Edmund Bridgerton's death had been both sudden and unexpected; he'd not had a chance to make any final requests of his eldest son before he perished. But if he had, Anthony was certain that he would have asked him to care for his mother and siblings with same diligence and affection Edmund had displayed.
And so in between Anthony's rounds of parties and horseraces, he'd sent his brothers to Eton and Oxford, gone to a mind-numbing number of piano recitals given by his sisters (no easy feat; three out of four of them were tone deaf), and kept a close and watchful eye on the family finances. With seven brothers and sisters, he saw it as his duty to make sure there was enough money to secure all of their futures.
As he grew closer to thirty, he'd realized that he was spending more and more time tending to his heritage and family and less and less in his old pursuit of decadence and pleasure. And he'd realized that he liked it that way. He still kept a mistress, but never more than one at a time, and he discovered that he no longer felt the need to enter every horse race or stay late at a party, just to win that last hand of cards.
His reputation, of course, stayed with him. He didn't mind that, actually. There were certain benefits to being thought England's most reprehensible rake. He was nearly universally feared, for example.
That was always a good thing.
But now it was time for marriage. He ought to settle down, have a son. He had a title to pass on, after all. He did feel a rather sharp twinge of regret --and perhaps a touch of guilt as well-- over the fact that it was unlikely that he'd live to see his son into adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton eight times over. He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply.
Besides, he took some comfort in knowing that he'd leave three able and caring brothers behind. They'd see to it that his son was brought up with the love and honor that every Bridgerton enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother might spoil him...
Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well-loved. And whatever children he sired-- well, they probably wouldn't remember him after he was gone. They'd be young, unformed. It had not escaped Anthony's notice that of all the Bridgerton children, he, the eldest, was the one most deeply affected by their father's death.
Anthony downed another sip of his scotch and straightened his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant ruminations from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the pursuit of a wife.
Being a discerning and somewhat organized man, he'd made a mental list of requirements for the position. First, she ought to be reasonably attractive. She needn't be a raving beauty (although that would be nice), but if he was going to have to bed her, he figured a bit of attraction ought to make the job more pleasant.
Second, she couldn't be stupid. This, Anthony mused, might be the most difficult of his requirements to fill. He was not universally impressed by the mental prowess of London debutantes. The last time he'd made the mistake of engaging a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom in conversation, she'd been unable to discuss anything other than food (she'd had a plate of strawberries in her hand at the time) and the weather (and she hadn't even gotten that right; when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she'd replied, "I'm sure I don't know. I've never been to Clement.")
He might be able to avoid conversation with a wife who was less than brilliant, but he did not want stupid children.
Third--and this was the most important--she couldn't be anyone with whom he might actually fall in love.
Under no circumstances would this rule be broken.
He wasn't a complete cynic; he knew that true love existed. Anyone who'd ever been in the same room with his parents knew that true love existed.
But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He had no desire for his life to be visited by that particular miracle.
And since Anthony was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt that he would find an attractive, intelligent woman with whom he would never fall in love. And what was the problem with that? Chances were he wouldn't have found the love of his life even if he had been looking for her. Most men didn't.
"Good God, Anthony, what has you frowning so? Not that olive. I saw it clearly and it didn't even touch you."
Benedict's voice broke him out of his reverie, and Anthony blinked a few times before answering, "Nothing. Nothing at all."
He hadn't, of course, shared his thoughts about his own mortality with anyone else, even his brothers. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to advertise. Hell, if someone had come up to him and said the same thing, he probably would have laughed him right out the door.
But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he'd felt with his father. And no one could possibly understand the way Anthony felt it in his bones, how he simply knew that he could not live longer than his father had done. Edmund had been everything to him. He'd always aspired to be as great a man as his father, knowing that that was unlikely, yet trying all the same. To actually achieve more than Edmund had --in any way-- that was nothing short of impossible.
Anthony's father was, quite simply, the greatest man he'd ever known, possibly the greatest man who'd ever lived. To think that he might be more than that seemed conceited in the extreme.
Something had happened to him the night his father had died, when he'd remained in his parents' bedroom with the body, just sitting there for hours, watching his father and trying desperately to remember every moment they'd shared. It would be so easy to forget the little things-- how Edmund would squeeze Anthony's upper arm when he needed encouragement. Or how he could recite from memory Balthazar's entire "Sigh No More," song from Much Ado About Nothing, not because he thought it particularly meaningful but just because he liked it.
And when Anthony finally emerged from the room, the first streaks of dawn pinking the sky, he somehow knew that his days were numbered, and numbered in the same way Edmund's had been.
"Spit it out," Benedict said, breaking into his thoughts once again. "I won't offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can't possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?"
Anthony suddenly sat up straighter, determined to force his attention back to the matter at hand. After all, he had a bride to choose, and that was surely serious business. "Who is considered the diamond of this season?" he asked.
His brothers paused for a moment to think on this, and then Colin said, "Edwina Sheffield. Surely you've seen her. Rather petite, with blond hair and blue eyes. You can usually spot her by the sheeplike crowd of lovesick suitors following her about."
Anthony ignored his brother's attempts at sarcastic humor. "Has she a brain?"
Colin blinked, as if the question of a woman with a brain was one that had never occurred to him. "Yes, I rather think she does. I once heard her discussing mythology with Middlethorpe, and it sounded as if she had the right of it."
"Good," Anthony said, letting his glass of scotch hit the table with a thunk. "Then I'll marry her."

Prologue--The Duke and I

The birth of Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset, Earl Clyvedon, was met with great celebration. Church bells rang for hours, champagne flowed freely through the gargantuan castle that the newborn would call home, and the entire village of Clyvedon quit work to partake of the feast and holiday ordered by the young earl's father.
This, the baker said to the blacksmith, was no ordinary baby.

For Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset would not spend his life as Earl Clyvedon. That was a mere courtesy title. Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset -- the baby who possessed more names than any baby could possibly need -- was the heir to one of England's oldest and richest dukedoms. And his father, the ninth Duke of Hastings, had waited years for this moment.
As he stood in the hall outside his wife's confinement room, cradling the squalling infant, the duke's heart burst with pride. Already several years past forty, he had watched his cronies -- dukes and earls, all -- beget heir after heir. Some had had to suffer through a few daughters before siring a precious son, but in the end, they'd all been assured that their lines would continue, that their blood would pass forward into the next generation of England's elite.

But not the Duke of Hastings. Though his wife had managed to conceive five times in the fifteen years of their marriage, only twice had she carried to full term, and both of those infants had been stillborn. After the fifth pregnancy, which had ended with a bloody miscarriage in the fifth month, surgeons and physicians alike had warned their graces that they absolutely must not make another attempt to have a child. The duchess's very life was in danger. She was too frail, too weak, and perhaps, they said gently, too old. The duke was simply going to have to reconcile himself to the fact that the dukedom would pass out of the Basset family.

But the duchess, God bless her, knew her role in life, and after a six-month recuperative period, she opened the connecting door between their bedrooms, and the duke once again commenced his quest for a son.

Five months later, the duchess informed the duke that she had conceived. The duke's immediate elation was tempered by his grim determination that nothing --absolutely nothing-- would cause this pregnancy to go awry. The duchess was confined to her bed the minute it was realized that she'd missed her monthly courses. A physician was brought in to visit her every day, and halfway through the pregnancy, the duke located the most respected doctor in London and paid him a king's ransom to temporarily abandon his practice and take up residence at Clyvedon Castle.

The duke was taking no chances this time. He would have a son, and the dukedom would remain in Basset hands.


The duchess experienced pains a month early, and pillows were tucked under her hips. Gravity might keep the babe inside, Dr. Stubbs explained. The duke thought that a sound argument, and, when the doctor had retired for the evening, placed yet another pillow under his wife, raising her to a twenty degree angle. She remained that way for a month.

And then finally, the moment of truth arrived. The household prayed for the duke, who so wanted an heir, and a few remembered to pray for the duchess, who had grown thin and frail even as her belly and grown round and wide. They tried not to be too hopeful -- after all, the duchess had already delivered and buried two babes. And even if she did managed to safely deliver a child, it could be, well, a girl.

As the duchess's screams grew louder and more frequent, the duke shoved his way into her chamber, ignoring the protests of the doctor, the midwife, and her grace's maid. It was a bloody mess, but the duke was determined to be present when the babe's sex was revealed. The head appeared, then the shoulders.

All leaned forward to watch as the duchess strained and pushed, and then...
And then the duke knew that there was a God, and He smiled on the Bassets. He allowed the midwife one minute to clean the babe, then took the little boy into his arms and marched into the great hall to show him off.

"I have a son!" he boomed. "A perfect little son!"

And while the servants cheered and wept with relief, the duke looked down upon the tiny little earl and said, "You are perfect. You are a Basset. You are mine."
The duke wanted to take the boy outside to prove to everyone that he had finally sired a healthy male child, but there was a slight chill in the early April air, so he allowed the midwife to take the babe back to his mother. The duke mounted one of his prized geldings and rode off to celebrate, shouting his good fortune to all who would listen.
Meanwhile, the duchess, who had been bleeding steadily since the birth, slipped into unconsciousness, and then finally just slipped away.

The duke mourned for his wife. He truly did. He hadn't loved her, of course, and she hadn't loved him, but they'd been friends in an oddly distant sort of way. The duke hadn't expected anything more from marriage than a son and an heir, and in that regard, his wife had proven herself an exemplary spouse. He arranged for fresh flowers to be laid at the base of her funereal monument every week, no matter the season, and her portrait was moved from the sitting room to the hall, in a position of great honor over the staircase.

And then the duke got on to the business of raising his son.

There wasn't much he could do in the first year, of course. The babe was too young for lectures on land management and responsibility, so the duke left Simon in the care of his nurse and went to London, where his life continued much as it had before he'd been blessed by parenthood, except that he forced everyone --even the king-- to gaze upon the miniature he'd had painted of his son shortly after his birth.

The duke visited Clyvedon from time to time, then returned for good on Simon's second birthday, ready to take the young lad's education in hand. A pony had been purchased, a small gun had been selected for future use at the fox hunt, and tutors were engaged in every subject known to man.

"He's too young for all that!" Nurse Hopkins exclaimed.
"Nonsense," Hastings replied condescendingly. "Clearly, I don't expect him to master any of this anytime soon, but it is never too early to begin a duke's education."
"He's not a duke," Nurse muttered.

"He will be." Hastings turned his back on her and crouched down beside his son, who was building an asymmetrical castle with a set of blocks on the floor. The duke hadn't been down to Clyvedon in several months, and was pleased with Simon's growth. He was a sturdy, healthy young boy, with glossy brown hair and clear blue eyes.

"What are you building there, son?"
Simon smiled and pointed.
Hastings looked up at Nurse Hopkins. "Doesn't he speak?"
She shook her head. "Not yet, your grace."
The duke frowned. "He's two. Shouldn't he be speaking?"
"Some children take longer than others, your grace. He's clearly a bright young boy."
Of course he's bright. He's a Basset."
Nurse nodded. She always nodded when the duke talked about the superiority of the Basset blood. "Maybe," she suggested, "he just doesn't have anything he wants to say."
The duke didn't look convinced, but he handed Simon a toy soldier, patted him on the head, and left the house to go exercise the new mare he'd purchased from Lord Worth.

Two years later, however, he wasn't so sanguine.
"Why isn't he talking?" he boomed.
"I don't know," Nurse answered, wringing her hands.
"What have you done to him?"
"I haven't done anything!"
"If you'd been doing your job correctly, he" --the duke jabbed an angry finger in Simon's direction-- "would be speaking."
Simon, who was practicing his letters at his miniature desk, watched the exchange with interest.
"He's four years old, God damn it," the duke roared. "He should be able to talk."
"He can write," Nurse said quickly. "Five children I've raised, and not a one of them has taken to letters the way Master Simon has."
"A fat lot of good writing is going to do him if he can't talk." Hastings turned to Simon, rage burning in his eyes. "Talk to me, damn you!"
Simon shrank back, his lower lip quivering.
"Your grace!" Nurse exclaimed. "You're scaring the child."
Hastings whipped around to face her. "Maybe he needs scaring. Maybe what he needs is a good dose of discipline. A good paddling might help him find his voice."
The duke grabbed the silver-backed brush Nurse used on Simon's hair and advanced on his son. "I'll make you talk, you stupid little--"
"No!"
Nurse gasped.The duke dropped the brush. It was the first time they'd ever heard Simon's voice.
"What did you say?" the duke whispered, tears forming in his eyes.
Simon's fists balled at his sides, and his little chin jutted out as he said, "Don't you h-h-h-h-h-h-h--"
The duke's face turned deathly pale. "What is he saying?"
Simon attempted the sentence again. "D-d-d-d-d-d-d--"
"My God," the duke breathed, horrified. "He's a moron."
"He's not a moron!" Nurse cried out, throwing her arms around the boy.
"D-d-d-d-d-d-d-don't you h-h-h-h-h-h-hit" --Simon took a deep breath-- "me."
Hastings sank onto the window seat. "What have I done to deserve this? What could I have possibly done..."
"You should be giving the boy praise!" Nurse Hopkins admonished. "Four years you've been waiting for him to speak, and--"
"And he's an idiot!" Hastings roared. "A goddamned, bloody little idiot!"
Simon began to cry.
"Hastings is going to go to a half-wit," the duke moaned. "All those years of praying for an heir, and now it's all for ruin. I should have let the title go to my cousin." He turned back to his son, who was sniffling and wiping his eyes, trying to appear strong for his father. "I can't even look at him," he gasped. "I can't even bear to look at him."
And with that, the duke stalked out of the room. Nurse Hopkins hugged the boy close. "You're not an idiot," she whispered fiercely. "You're the smartest little boy I know. And if anyone can learn to talk properly, I know it's you."
Simon turned into her warm embrace and sobbed.
"We'll show him," Nurse vowed. "He'll eat his words if it's the last thing I do."

Nurse Hopkins proved true to her word. While the Duke of Hastings removed himself to London and tried to pretend he had no son, she spent every waking minute with Simon, sounding out words and syllables, praising him lavishly when he got something right, and giving him encouraging words when he didn't.
The progress was slow, but Simon's speech did improve. By the time he was six, "d-d-d-d-d-d-d-don't" had turned into "d-d-don't," and by the time he was eight, he was managing entire sentences without faltering. He still ran into trouble when he was upset, and Nurse had to remind him often that he needed to remain calm and collected if he wanted to get the words out in one piece.
But Simon was determined, and Simon was smart, and perhaps most importantly, he was damned stubborn. He learned to take breaths before each sentence, and to think about his words before he attempted to say them. He studied the feel of his mouth when he spoke correctly, and tried to analyze what went wrong when he didn't.
And finally, at the age of eleven, he turned to Nurse Hopkins, paused to collect his thoughts, and said, "I think it is time we went to see my father."
Nurse looked up sharply. The duke had not laid eyes on the boy in seven years. "Are you certain?"
Simon nodded.
"Very well, then. I'll order the carriage. We'll leave for London on the morrow."
The trip took much of the day, and it was late afternoon by the time their carriage rolled up to Basset House. Simon gazed at the busy London streetscape with wonder as Nurse Hopkins led him up the steps. Neither had ever visited Basset House before, and so Nurse didn't know what to do when she reached the front door other than knock.
The door swung open within seconds, and they found themselves been looked down upon by a rather imposing butler.
"Deliveries," he intoned, reaching to close the door, "are made in the rear."
"Hold there!" Nurse said quickly, jamming her foot in the door. "We are not servants."
The butler looked disdainfully at her garments.
"Well, I am, but not him." She grabbed Simon's arm and yanked him forward. "This is Earl Clyvedon, and you'd do well to treat him with respect."
The butler's mouth actually dropped open, and he blinked several times before saying, "It is my understanding that Earl Clyvedon is dead."
"What?" Nurse screeched.
"I most certainly am not!" Simon exclaimed, with all the righteous indignation of an eleven-year-old.
The butler examined Simon, recognized immediately that he had the look of the Bassets, and ushered them in. "Why did you think I was d-dead?" Simon asked, cursing himself for misspeaking, but not surprised. He was most likely to stutter when he was angry.
"It is not for me to say," the butler replied.
"It most certainly is," Nurse shot back. "You can't say something like that to a boy of his years and not explain it."
The butler was silent for a moment, then finally said, "His grace has not mentioned you in years. The last I heard, he said he had no son. He looked quite pained as he said it, so no one pursued the conversation. We all --the servants, that is-- assumed you'd passed on."
Simon felt his jaw clench, felt his throat working wildly. "Wouldn't he have gone into mourning?" Nurse demanded. "Did you think about that? How could you have assumed the boy was dead if his father were not in mourning?"
The butler shrugged. "His grace frequently wears black. Mourning wouldn't have altered his costume."
"This is an outrage," Nurse said. "I demand you summon his grace at once."
Simon said nothing. He was trying too hard to get his emotions under control. He had to. There was no way he'd be able to talk with his father while his blood was racing so.
The butler nodded. "He is upstairs. I'll alert him immediately to your arrival."
Nurse started pacing wildly, muttering under his breath and referring to his grace with every vile word in her vocabulary. Simon remained in the center of the room, his arms angry sticks at his side as he took deep breaths. You can do this, he shouted in his mind. You can do this. Nurse turned to him, saw him trying to control his temper and immediately gasped. "Yes, that's it," she said quickly, dropping to her knees and taking her hands in his. "Take deep breaths. And make sure to think before you speak. If you can control--"
"I see you're still mollycoddling the boy," came an imperious voice from the doorway.
Nurse Hopkins straightened and turned slowly around. She tried to think of something respectful to say. She tried to think of anything that would smooth over this awful situation. But when she looked at the duke, she saw Simon in him, and her rage began anew. The duke might look just like his son, but he was certainly no father to him.
"You, sir," she spat out, "are despicable."
"And you, madam, are fired."
Nurse lurched back.
"No one speaks to the Duke of Hastings that way," he roared. "No one!"
"Not even the king?" Simon taunted.
Hastings whirled around, not even noticing that his son had spoken clearly.
"You," he said in a low voice. Simon nodded curtly. He'd managed one sentence properly, but he didn't want to push his luck. Not when he was this upset. Normally, he could go days without a stutter, but now...
The way his father stared at him made him feel like an infant. An idiot infant.
And his tongue suddenly felt awkward and thick.
The duke smiled cruelly. "What do you have to say for yourself, boy? Eh? What do you have to say?"
"It's all right, Simon," Nurse Hopkins whispered. "You can do it, sweetling"
And somehow her encouraging tone made it all the worse. Simon had come here to prove himself to his father, and now his nurse was treating him like a baby.
"What's the matter?" the duke taunted. "Cat got your tongue?"
Simon's muscles clenched so hard he started to shake.
Father and son stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, until finally the duke swore and stalked toward the door. "Get him out of my sight," he spat at Nurse Hopkins. "You can keep your job just so long as you keep him away from me."
"Wait!"
The duke turned slowly around at the sound of Simon's voice. "Did you say something?" he drawled.
Simon took three long breaths in through his nose, his mouth still clamped together in anger. He forced his jaw to relax and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to remind himself of how it felt to speak properly. Finally, just as the duke was about to dismiss him again, he opened his mouth and said, "I am your son."
Simon heard Nurse Hopkins breathe a sigh of relief, and something he'd never seen before blossomed in his father's eyes. Pride. Not much of it, but there was something there, lurking in the depths; something that gave Simon a whisper of hope.
"I am your son," he said again, this time a little louder, "and I am not d--"
Suddenly his throat closed up. And Simon panicked.
You can do this. You can do this.
But his throat felt tight, and his tongue felt thick, and his father's eyes started to narrow...
"I am not d-d-d--"
"Go home," the duke said in a low voice. "There is no place for you here."
Simon felt the duke's rejection in his very bones, felt a peculiar kind of pain enter his body and creep around his heart. And as hatred flooded his body and poured from his eyes, he made a solemn vow.
If he couldn't be the son his father wanted, then by God, he'd be the exact opposite...

Chapter One
The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of society. Such industriousness on the part of the viscountess and the late viscount is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children. Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth -- orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize their names.
Furthermore, the sight of the viscountess and all eight of her children in one room is enough to make one fear one is seeing double -- or triple -- or worse. Never has This Author seen a collection of siblings so ludicrously alike in their physical regard. Although this Author has never taken the time to record eye color, all eight possess similar bone structure and the same thick, chestnut hair. One must pity the viscountess as she seeks advantageous marriages for her brood that she did not produce a single child of more fashionable coloring. Still, there are advantages to a family of such consistent looks -- there can be no doubt that all eight are of legitimate parentage.
Ah, Gentle Reader, your devoted Author wishes that that were the case amid all large families...
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers,28 June 1813
"Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!" Violet Bridgerton crumpled the single-page newspaper into a ball and hurled it across the elegant drawing room.
Her daughter Daphne wisely made no comment and pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery.
"Did you read what she said?" Violet demanded. "Did you?"
Daphne eyed the ball of paper, which now rested under a mahogany end table. "I didn't have the opportunity before you, er, finished with it."
"Read it, then," Violet wailed, her arm slicing dramatically through the air. "Read how that woman has maligned us."
Daphne calmly set down her embroidery and reached under the end table. She smoothed the sheet of paper out on her lap and read the paragraph about her family. Blinking, she looked up. "This isn't so bad, Mother. In fact, it's a veritable benediction compared to what she wrote about the Featheringtons last week."
"How am I supposed to find you a husband while that woman is slandering your name?"
Daphne forced herself to exhale. After nearly two seasons in London, the mere mention of the word "husband" was enough to set her temples pounding. She wanted to marry, truly she did, and she wasn't even holding out for love match. But was it really too much to hope for a husband for whom one had at least some affection?
Thus far, four men had asked for her hand, but when Daphne had thought about living her days in their company, she just couldn't do it. There were a number of men she thought might make reasonably good husbands, but the problem was -- none of them was interested. Oh, they all liked her. Everyone liked her. Everyone thought she was funny and kind and a quick wit, and no one thought her the least bit unattractive, but at the same time, no one was dazzled by her beauty, stunned into speechlessness by her presence, or moved to write poetry in her honor.
Men, she thought with disgust, seemed interested only in those women who terrified them.
No one seemed inclined to court someone like her. They all adored her, or so they said, because she was so easy to talk to, and she always seemed to understand how a man felt. As one of the men Daphne had thought might make a reasonably good husband had said, "Deuce take it, Daff, you're just not like regular females. You're positively normal."
Which she might have managed to consider a compliment if he hadn't proceeded to wander off in search of the latest blond beauty.
Daphne looked down and noticed that her hand was clenched into a fist. Then she looked up and realized her mother was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say something. Since she had already exhaled, Daphne cleared her throat and said, "I'm sure Lady Whistledown's little column is not going to hurt my chances for a husband."
"Daphne, it's been two years!"
Daphne's fingernails bit her palm, as she willed herself not to make a retort. She knew her mother had only her best interests at heart, she knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother, too. In fact, until Daphne had reached marriageable age, Violet had been positively the best of mothers. She still was, when she wasn't despairing over the fact that after Daphne she had three more daughters to marry off.
Violet pressed a delicate hand to her chest. "She cast aspersions on your parentage."
"No," Daphne said slowly. It was always wise to proceed with caution when contradicting her mother. "Actually, what she said was that there could be no doubt that we are all legitimate. Which is more than one can say for most large families of the ton."
"She shouldn't have even brought it up," Violet sniffed.
"Mother, she's the author of a scandal sheet. It's her job to bring such things up."
"She isn't even a real person," Violet added angrily. She planted her hands on her slim hips, then changed her mind and shook her finger in the air. "Whistledown, ha! I've never heard of any Whistledowns. Whoever this depraved woman is, I doubt she's one of us. As if anyone of breeding would write such wicked lies."
"Of course she's one of us," Daphne said, her brown eyes filling with amusement. "If she weren't a member of the ton, there is no way she'd privy to the sort of news she reports. Did you think she was some sort of impostor, peeking in windows and listening at doors?"
"I don't like your tone, Daphne Bridgerton," Violet said, her eyes narrowing.
Daphne bit back another smile. "I don't like your tone," was Violet's standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument.
But it was too much fun to tease her mother. "I wouldn't be surprised," she said, cocking her head to the side, "if Lady Whistledown was one of your friends."
"Bite your tongue, Daphne. No friend of mine would ever stoop so low."
"Very well," Daphne allowed, "it's probably not one of your friends. But I'm certain it's someone we know."
Violet crossed her arms. "I should like to put her out of business once and for all."
"If you wish to put her out of business," Daphne could not resist pointing out, "you shouldn't support her by buying her newspaper."
"And what good would that do?" Violet demanded. "Everyone else is reading it. My puny little embargo would do nothing except make me look ignorant when everyone else is chuckling over her latest gossip."
That much was true, Daphne silently agreed. London was positively addicted to Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. The mysterious newspaper had arrived on the doorstep of every member of the ton three months earlier. For two weeks it was delivered unbidden every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. And then, on the third Monday, butlers across London waited in vain for the pack of paperboys who normally delivered Whistledown, only to discover that instead of free delivery, they were selling the gossip sheet for the outrageous price of five pennies a paper.
Daphne had to admire the fictitious Lady Whistledown's savvy. By the time she started forcing people to pay for their gossip, all the ton was addicted. Everyone forked over their pennies, and somewhere some meddlesome woman was getting rich.
While Violet paced the room and huffed about this "hideous slight" against her family, Daphne looked up to make certain her mother wasn't paying her any attention, then let her eyes drop to peruse the rest of the scandal sheet. Whistledown --as it was now called-- was a curious mix of commentary, social news, scathing insult, and the occasional compliment. What set it apart from any previous society news sheets was that the author actually listed her subjects' names in full. There was no hiding behind abbreviations such as Lord S-- and Lady G--. If Lady Whistledown wanted to write about someone, she used his full name. The ton declared themselves scandalized, but they were secretly fascinated.
Today's edition was typical Whistledown. Aside from the short piece on the Bridgertons -- which was really no more than a description of the family -- Lady Whistledown had recounted the events at the previous night's ball. Daphne hadn't attended, as it had been her younger sister's birthday, and the Bridgertons always made a big fuss about birthdays. And with eight children, there were a lot of birthdays to celebrate.
"You're reading that rubbish," Violet accused. Daphne looked up, refusing to feel the least bit guilty. "She gives quite a good account of the Middlethorpe ball. Mentions who was talking to whom, what everyone was wearing--"
"And I suppose she felt the need to editorialize on that point," Violet cut in.
Daphne smiled wickedly. "Oh, come now, Mother. You know that Mrs. Featherington has always looked dreadful in purple."
Violet tried not to smile. Daphne could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to maintain the composure she deemed appropriate for a viscountess and mother. But within two seconds, she was grinning and sitting next to her daughter on the sofa. "Let me see that," she said, snatching up the paper. "What else happened? Did we miss anything important?"
Daphne said, "Really, Mother, with Lady Whistledown as a reporter, one needn't actually attend any events." She waved toward the paper. "This is almost as good as actually being there. Better, probably. I'm certain we had better food last night than they did at the ball. And give that back." She yanked the paper back, leaving a torn corner in Violet's hands.
"Daphne!"
Daphne affected mock righteousness. "I was reading it."
"Well!"
"Listen to this."
Violet leaned in.
Daphne read: "'The rake formerly known as Earl Clyvedon has finally seen fit to grace London with his presence. Although he has not yet deigned to make an appearance at a respectable evening function, the new Duke of Hastings has been spotted several times at White's.' " She paused to take a breath. " 'His grace has resided abroad for six years. Can it be any coincidence that he has returned only now that the old duke is dead?' " Daphne looked up. "My goodness, she is blunt, isn't she? Isn't Clyvedon one of Anthony's friends?"
"He's Hastings now," Violet said automatically, "and yes, I do believe he and Anthony were friendly at Oxford. And Eton as well, I think." Her brow scrunched and her pale blue eyes narrowed with thought. "He was something of a hellion, if my memory serves. Always at odds with his father. But reputed to be quite brilliant. Anthony said he took a first in mathematics."
"He sounds quite interesting," Daphne murmured.
Violet looked at her sharply. "He's quite unsuitable for a young lady of your years is what he is."
"Funny how my 'years,' as you put it, volley back and forth between being so young that I cannot even meet Anthony's friends and being so old that you despair of my ever contracting a good marriage."
"Daphne Bridgerton, I don't--"
"--like my tone, I know." Daphne grinned. "But you love me."
Violet smiled warmly and wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulder. "Heaven help me, I do."
Daphne gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. "It's the curse of motherhood. You're required to love us even when we vex you."
Violet just rolled her eyes. "I hope that someday you have children--"
"--just like me, I know." Daphne rested her head on her mother's shoulder. Her mother was a fussbudget, and her father had been more interested in hounds and hunting than he'd been in society affairs, but theirs had been a warm marriage, filled with love and laughter. "I could do a great deal worse than follow your example, Mother," she murmured.
"Why Daphne," Violet said, her eyes growing watery, "what a lovely thing to say."
Daphne twirled a lock of her chestnut hair around her finger, and grinned, letting the sentimental moment melt into a more teasing one. "I'm happy to follow in your footsteps when it comes to marriage and children, Mother, just so long as I don't have to have eight."

At that exact moment, Simon Basset, the new Duke of Hastings and the erstwhile topic of the Bridgerton ladies' conversation, was sitting at White's. His companion was none other than Anthony Bridgerton, Daphne's eldest brother. The two cut a striking pair, both tall and athletic, with thick dark hair. But where Anthony's eyes were the same deep brown as his sister's, Simon's were icy blue, with an oddly penetrating gaze.
It was those eyes as much as anything that had earned him his reputation as a man to be reckoned with. When he stared at a person, clear and unwavering, men grew uncomfortable. Women positively shivered.
But not Anthony. The two men had known each other for years, and Anthony just laughed when Simon raised a brow and turned his icy gaze upon him. "You forget, I've seen you with your head being lowered into a chamberpot," Anthony had once told him. "It's been difficult to take you seriously ever since."
To which Simon had replied, "Yes, but if I recall, you were the one holding me over that fragrant receptacle."
"One of my proudest moments, to be sure. But you had your revenge the next night in the form of a dozen eels."
Simon allowed himself a smile as he remembered both the incident and their subsequent conversation about it. Anthony was a good friend, just the sort a man would want by his side in a pinch. He'd been the first person he'd gotten in touch with upon returning to England.
"It's damned fine to have you back, Clyvedon," Anthony said once they'd settled in at their table at White's. "Oh, but I suppose you'll insist I call you Hastings now."
"No," Simon said rather emphatically. "Hastings will always be my father. He never answered to anything else." He paused. "I'll assume his title if I must, but I won't be called by his name."
"If you must?" Anthony's brown eyes widened slightly. "Most men would not sound quite so resigned about the prospect of a dukedom."
Simon raked a hand through his dark hair. He knew he was supposed to cherish his birthright and display unwavering pride in the Basset family's illustrious history, but the truth was it all made him sick inside. He'd spent his entire life not living up to his father's expectations; it seemed ridiculous now to try to live up to his name. "It's a damned burden is what it is," he finally said.
"You'd best get used to it," Anthony said pragmatically, "because that's what everyone will call you."
Simon knew it was true, but he doubted if the title would ever sit well upon his shoulders.
"Well, whatever the case," Anthony added, respecting his friend's privacy by not delving further into what was obviously an uncomfortable topic, "I'm glad to have you back. I might finally get some peace next time I escort my sister to a ball."
Simon leaned back, crossing his long legs at the ankles. "An intriguing remark."
Anthony raised a brow. "One that you're certain I'll explain?"
"But of course."
"I ought to let you learn for yourself, but then, I've never been a cruel man."
Simon chuckled. "This coming from the man who dunked my head in a chamberpot?"
Anthony waved his hand dismissively. "I was young."
"And now you're a model of mature decorum and respectability?"
Anthony grinned. "Absolutely."
"So tell me," Simon drawled, "how, exactly, am I meant to make your existence that much more peaceful?"
"I assume you plan to take your place in society?"
"You assume incorrectly."
"But you are planning to attend Lady Danbury's ball this week," Anthony said.
"Only because I am inexplicably fond of the old woman. She says what she means, and--" Simon's eyes grew somewhat shuttered.
"And?" Anthony prompted.
Simon gave his head a little shake. "It's nothing. Just that she was rather kind to me as a child. I spent a few school holidays at her house with Riverdale. Her nephew, you know."
"Very well. So you have no intention of entering society. I'm impressed by your resolve. But allow me to warn you-- even if you do not choose to attend the ton's events, they will find you."
Simon, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his brandy, choked on the spirit at the look on Anthony's face when he said, "they." After a few moments of coughing and sputtering, he finally managed to say, "Who, pray tell, are 'they?' "
Anthony shuddered. "Mothers."
"Not having had one myself, I can't say I grasp your point."
"Society mothers, you dolt. Those dragons with daughters of marriageable age. You can run, but you'll never manage to hide from them. And I should warn you, my own is the worst of the lot."
"Good God. And here I thought Africa was dangerous."
Anthony shot his friend a faintly pitying look. "They will hunt you down. And when they find you, you will find yourself trapped in conversation with a pale young lady all dressed in white who cannot converse on topics other than the weather, who received vouchers to Almacks, and hair ribbons."
A look of amusement crossed Simon's features. "I take it, then, that you have become something of an eligible gentleman during my time abroad?"
"Not out of any aspirations to the role on my part, I assure you. If it were up to me, I'd avoid society functions like the plague. But my sister made her bow last year, and I'm forced to escort her from time to time."
"Daphne, you mean?"
Anthony looked up in surprise. "Did the two of you ever meet?"
"No," Simon admitted, "but I remember her letters to you at school, and I knew she was fourth in the family, so she had to start with D, and--"
"Ah, yes," Anthony said with a slight roll of his eyes, "the Bridgerton method of naming children. Guaranteed to make certain no one forgets who you are." Simon laughed.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Say, Simon," Anthony suddenly said, leaning forward, "I've promised my mother I'll have dinner at Bridgerton House the later this week with the family. Why don't you join me?"
Simon raised a dark brow. "Didn't you just warn me about society mothers and debutante daughters?"
Anthony laughed. "I'll put my mother on her best behavior, and don't worry about Daff. She's the exception that proves the rule. You'll like her immensely."
Simon narrowed his eyes. Was Anthony playing matchmaker? He couldn't tell.
As if Anthony were reading his thoughts, he laughed. "Good God, you don't think I'm trying to pair you off with Daphne, do you?"
Simon said nothing.
"You would never suit. You're a bit too brooding for her tastes."
Simon thought that an odd comment, but instead chose to ask, "Has she had any offers, then?"
"A few. I've let her refuse them all."
"That's rather indulgent of you." Anthony shrugged. "Love is probably too much to hope for in a marriage these days, but I don't see why she shouldn't be happy with her husband. We've had offers from two men old enough to be her father, one who is a bit too high in the instep for our often boisterous clan, and then this week, one who was perfectly amiable, but a rather bit dim in the head."
"Not many brothers would allow their sister such latitude," Simon said quietly.
Anthony just shrugged again, as if he couldn't imagine treating his sister in any other way. "She's been a good sister to me. It's the least I can do."
"Even if it means escorting her to Almacks?" Simon said wickedly.
Anthony groaned. "Even then."
"I'd console you by pointing out that this will all be over soon, but you've what, three other sisters waiting in the wings?"
Anthony positively slumped in his seat. "Eloise is due out next year, and Francesca the year after that, but then I've a bit of a reprieve before Hyacinth comes of age."
Simon chuckled. "I don't envy you your responsibilities in that quarter." But even as he said the words, he felt a strange longing, and he wondered what it would be like to be not quite so alone in this world. He had no plans to start a family of his own, but maybe if he'd had one to begin with, his life would have turned out a bit differently.
"So you'll come for supper, then?" Anthony stood. "Informal, of course. We never take meals formally when it's just family."
Simon had a dozen things to do in the next few days, but before he could remind himself that he needed to get his affairs in order, he heard himself saying, "I'd be delighted."

The Viscount Who Love Me

Kate Sheffield is determined to keep Anthony Bridgerton from seducing her sister. But what if the notorious viscount decides to seduce her instead?

The Duke and I.....bout Daphne Bridgerton

Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, has sworn never to marry. Daphne Bridgerton has sworn to marry only for love. They make a bargain and fake a courtship to keep the ton's matchmakers at bay--but what happens when the charade becomes all too real?

Twilight---New Moon

Team Jacob will be over the moon with this piece of news. To further capitalise the success of the Twilight series, the book publisher has released a new cover of the movie tie-in edition of New Moon. And the cover features exclusive image of Taylor Lautner and Kristen Stewart locked in an embrace. Looks very Harlequin if you ask me.
That's not all, there's also a poster included in the paperback!
Another piece of good news for Twilighters. You definitely have to look out for the 1 July issue of Galaxie because there is a DOUBLE SPREAD New Moon poster just for you. How cool!

Is it LOVE ????

What is it with LOVE ?
That makes me then breaks me ?
When in love do I truly love ?
Is it really love Or do I think that I love ?
Maybe I just being in love
Or love the idea of being in love ?
I spent my whole life chasing love.
In the end the one thing I truly love
Could just be the Meir pursuit of love

I have heard it said
True love comes around only once in life...
I never believed that until I met you.
I now know what true love means,
For never have I loved someone
as I love you.....

Because our love is etrnal
There's nothing left to say,
Except to say this one last word.
I love you more and more each day

Poem-- Endless Love

My love for you will never end,

You are my true one and only.

My desire for you will never die,

Because my loving hear

it will never leave you lonely.

You are the sun in my sky,

And the moon in my night

You are the reason why I smile,

And the love in my life

You are the reason

I rise in the morning,

Looking forward to you gorgeous smile.

You are the reason

I lie to rest at night,

Because in my dreams everything is

OH, so, right

My love, passion,

and devotion for you will never end,

As long as you are in my life

You are the reason I stay around,

You make my life seem so sound.

You helped me forget my past,

Which is something I need to do?

I thank you greatly for that,

Is your love for me true?

You wouldn't treat me like you do,

If it was true

That's what I am thinking,

Would you?

trust you with my loving heart,

And I will forever cherish our memories.

I will never let our love die,

Because what we have is ENDLESS LOVE.

Poem of the Day--- Why I Love You

Why I love you- I think about this every day but I know I love you in a special way.

Why I love you, because you are my world,

my everything and every day

I spend with you, you make my heart sink..

Why I love you, because you keep it real by telling me

how you feel.Why I love you,

because when we kiss you send chills up my spine-

it just make me wish that I could stop the time.

Why I love you, because you have a smile that is just so beautiful to me.

Why I love you, because I love the way you love me.

Why I love you, because I know my love for you is true and there is nothing in this world that

I wouldn't do to keep you happy and a smile on your face-

the love I have for you will never be erased.

So you ask Why I love you-

these and many more reasons are why,

I will always love you no matter what happens

I will always love you until I die.
This is exactly how I feel about you and this is

Why I Love You

Friendship

Friendship

Poem of the Day --- You Are The One

You are the one I choose
To be with me for eternity
To caress and whisper
“ How are you my darling so sweet?”

You are the one I need
To tell me
How much I mean to you
How much you love me so...

Making my day so brilliant
As the sun shining so bright in the sky…
You are the one I want
To embrace me so tight

Whispering “ I love you”
As I lay on bed every night…
You are the one
I dream of

To be at my side always
Knowing you are there
To console me
When I am feeling sad and blue

You are the one
I loveMy heart, my soul, my inspiration
You mean so much to meE
ven we are far from one another…

You are the one…
Just you…
Nobody elseBut you…

Forever One

Two different minds, yet so much alike
We’re always in each other thoughts
We share our dreams, they're so alike

And we know we’ll be forever one

Two separate hearts in each other
But always beating as one
With the love we share for one another

Together they will be forever one

Two souls deeply seeded inside of us
With emotions so pure, so strong
Nothing could ever come between us

Our love will make us forever one

I Only Love and Adore You

I love you in a place

where there's no space or time

I love you with my life

that you have made divine.

There's a world waiting for just us two

picture it in your mind

that's where we'll always stay

together till the end of time.

I've got you under my skin

deep in the heart of me

just look into my eyes

and know that you're all I see.

Life will never be the way we want

but I can be satisfied

just knowing that you love me

and will always be by my side.